I write not that I might air the clean laundry, but the dirty...

When asked why I have not updated this blog, I reply, “Oh, I’ve been so busy.”  I am sorry to say, I was lying.  While it is true that many major events and life changes have been underway, those events and changes are all the more reason for writing.  This post is an effort at transparency, though, I do fear at times that explanations themselves tend to muddy the waters. Be that as it may, here is my confession: The primary reason, rising above the usual scattered excuses, that I have not been writing is that I have, for lack of a more appropriate term, been depressed.

As I write, there is a wedding celebration transpiring in the auditorium.  I can hear occasional bursts of applause and jovial voices.  I can imagine the sumptuous African foods that have been in the process of preparation from last night all the way through to this afternoon.  I stayed home after my house shift today, in spite of feeling the urge to escape the city, just so that I could attend this very celebration.  Instead, I am in my room, too ashamed of my eyelids and nose, swollen from hours of weeping, to show my face downstairs. 

I’ve been reluctant to disclose my discouraged state, for a few reasons beyond the usual embarrassment, lack of adequate explanation, etc. One is that I do not want to give the impression that I am sad all the time, I’m not.  I have been able to rest in genuinely happy and peaceful moments, enjoy other peoples company, feel energized by work or ideas.  Another is that I am not in a state of absolute despair, I have not yet reached that point. Finally, because of my recent marriage.  Though it is certainly an upheaval of my former life, it is also an island of stability in the midst of this tumultuous sea of doubt that seems to swell over almost every other aspect of my life. Ted’s loving presence continually returns me to appreciation for life and others and myself.

Other recent life changes we might shift our attention to are a recent move to New York City and to Maryhouse.  Admittedly, I have been sorely tempted to point my finger at these.  I catch myself making exaggerated comparisons between my move to Chicago and my move here.  In Chicago, I felt my life expanding, as though I was taking a deep, enlivening breath; I was eager to involve myself in every opportunity that presented itself, no matter how intimidating.  In New York, I feel crumpled, as though I’ve had the breath knocked out of me in a painful whoosh and I am inclined to opt out of every opportunity that presents itself, no matter how appealing.

 It is little wonder that a person who loves solitude and natural places might feel claustrophobic living in an unruly house of twenty-five people and a city that seems obsessed with hiding the earth beneath concrete and the sky behind buildings.  There is more to this, though, than geography. And I know that the transition has been subtle and varied, experiencing shifts long before my shift in locale and community.

Bearing that in mind, I will go back a bit on what I have said and assert that, in fact, my troubles do have something to do with marriage, and Manhattan, and Maryhouse! Not because they create this interior disturbance, but because they confront me with it.  Manhattan’s rejection of nature, subjection of the poor and projection of the importance of image and success forces me to consider where I really stand in relation to these things. Maryhouse, somehow, acts as a mirror and holds before my face everything I don’t like about myself. Living here I feel weak, indecisive, unassertive, disorganized, wasteful, petty, lacking vision and imagination, lacking in compassion, socially timid, etc, etc, etc.  In addition to that all of my critique for the community, which I will not include here, can be turned on myself. 

In addition to a new city and community, a new relationship requires more new relationships.  It is necessary to meet and connect with new people.  This has never been easy for me and the challenge is intensified by being in a state where I feel that I am struggling to “keep it together,” so to speak. Thus I am inhibited beyond my usual shyness by the contradictory inclinations to always be open and truthful and to put on my best face.  Marriage also complicates my usual coping techniques.  Making decisions with someone else is hard.  Not only is there the possibility of not agreeing, but also the feeling of not wanting to inadvertently coerce the other into doing something they don’t want and that they (and thus you who love them) will regret.  I feel weighed down by this. 

Historically, my response to feeling inadequate or disconnected or disinterested with a job or a group or a place has been to leave it.  To point my ship toward new horizons and sail on.  Now, if not absolutely held back, I am slowed by the presence of another person, whom I will never desert.  Now I am forced to remain while the ugly aspects of myself make their mean presence known.  I cannot turn my back on the difficult questions of how to love the same person(s) over and over again each day.  I cannot avoid the challenge of dwelling within a neighborhood and a culture where I feel I do not belong. I can’t shake off the feeling of confusion and dismay about how to live justly when I am, and the society I live in is, so corrupt. Now that my life is intentionally shared, I cannot simply disengage and start over.  Thus, my husband is not so much a “ball and chain” as an anchor, holding me, teaching me what it is to remain.

Ever since the Avett Brothers came out with the song, “Weight of Lies,” I have felt haunted by the lyrics:

Disappear from your home town,

go and find the people that you know.

Show them all your good parts and

leave town when the bad ones start to show...

The weight of lies will bring you down

follow you to every town

‘cause nothin’ happens here that doesn’t happen there…

I feel an invisible knowing look levied on me every time I hear the song, yet I can’t stop listening.  I have been feeling and thinking and writing about wanting to break this pattern of skimming the surface of questions and work and relationships for years.  I have been praying for something or someone to help me plant roots, stay the course, to sink deeper, not into despair but into revealed, engaged life.  I have considered all manner of escapes to get me there.  Ironically, it seems possible that the way to deeper, abiding, deliverance may be this “trap” I have willfully walked into.

Despite my gratitude for this realization, I feel inadequate to live into it.  Part of my dismay is that someone who has had so much unreservedly given to her (me) can be so stingy and cautious with how she spends her life.  Though I speak and write of it often, I am reluctant to actively seek out and experiment with living out Love and Truth.  Though I am quick to criticize what I don’t like, I am unable to articulate what I want.   Armed with the art of manipulating words, and trained to bring pieces of writing to a conclusion, I often wrap up my musings with a positive resolution.  Sometimes it is accurate, other times it is not.  This time, I want to be frank.  I’m not finished.

Tonight I finally read for the first time an article from the Catholic Worker archives that Ted had sent to me before I moved here.  It is by our friend Pat Jordan, a fellow admirer of the Jewish philosopher and humanitarian, Martin Buber.  Pat sums up his brief biography of Buber using excerpts from his writing to construct an imaginary address from Buber to the readers of the CW.  Little wonder, my ego-centric mind imagines this articled from 1978 was written for me, in this moment.  The following is a quote from Buber:

“Existence will remain meaningless for you if you yourself do not penetrate into it with active love, and if you do not in this way discover its meaning for yourself.  Everything is waiting to be hallowed by you; it is waiting to be disclosed in its meaning, and to be realized in it by you…meet the world with the fullness of your being and you shall meet God…If you wish to believe, love.”

Pat responds to this, writing, “Renew your faith. Yes, your faith, your trust in God.  You must, for your task demands it.  Remember, ‘One who loves God only as the moral ideal is bound soon to reach the point of despair at the conduct of the world.’”

“The power of turning,” again, quoting Buber, “which radically changes the situation, never reveals itself outside the crisis.  This power begins to function when one, gripped by despair, instead of allowing himself to be submerged, calls forth his primal powers and accomplishes with them the turning of his very existence.  It happens this way, both in the life of the person and in that of the race.”

Before Ted went downstairs to the aforementioned wedding, he sat with me in the midst of my wallowing; asking questions, reflecting on his own experiences, holding on to me.  I laid on the bed after he left and tried not to let the fact that I was up here feeling and looking pathetic while others were downstairs celebrating exacerbate my melancholia.  I picked up a pen and wrote a challenge to what I keep feeling:

“I am not a wasted life.  There is still today.”

Anyone who has been depressed knows that it is accompanied by an overload of self-focus and an absence self-confidence.  It is a time in which one feels very little hope in creating or implementing alternatives, very little motivation to act and shamefully selfish.  Writing this is an act of hope, an attempt to encourage myself that I am “keeping my wits about me,” (as my old friend Larry used to continually advise) and that maybe, just maybe, I have something to offer in the simple act of sharing myself. Granted, I am only "saying" this in writing.  If reading this enables others to be more bold, I am grateful. If nothing else, offering this wordy translation of my thoughts reminds me that I am still here, and you are still there, and we still have today to choose who we will be.