Pieces of the Puzzle

One of the things my Aunt Sharon loves is working jigsaw puzzles.  When she's over for holiday gatherings or family dinners, after we've eaten and watched the requisite Elvis DVD, I'll set up a TV tray and get out one of the Disney or Peanuts puzzles we keep for her on a closet shelf in the den.  Sharon is what some people would now call "intellectually disabled."  Our family tends not to use that term because despite having autistic tendences from a bout of encephalitis as a toddler and then sustaining a traumatic head injury a year or so later that left her brain damaged (and at the time labeled mentally retarded) there's nothing wrong with her intellect.  Sure-- each Thanksgiving we need to prompt her to turn her knife over because she can't figure out which side to use to cut her turkey, but in many respects she's more on the ball than many so called "normal" people. 

During one of her regular progress meetings a few years ago, the head of her vocational program mentioned what a good worker Sharon was and said they'd like to give her more responsibility than just stuffing envelopes or sorting nuts and bolts, the sort of tasks that sheltered workshop participants often do.  As the counselors and my mother began to discuss this, Sharon piped up and asked, "What does responsibility mean?"  It was explained to her that in this case, it meant getting a larger volume and more complex tasks at work, to which she replied, "Sharon does NOT want any more responsibility."  More work for the same pay-- who can blame her?

Sharon also has a great sense of humor and delights in making my brother and I laugh.  One evening as we were leaving a crowded restaurant my parents had gone ahead and C. and I were preparing to walk our aunt out to the car.  As we got up from the table she leaned over to us and, in a conspiratorial whisper said, "Okay now don't act suspicious."  She then proceeded to walk out of the restaurant flapping her arms like a chicken and squawking, "I'm a baby bird!" at the top of her lungs.  If you think about it, it was ingenious.  The best way to not act suspicious is to make yourself conspicuous and she certainly did that.  Although to this day we don't know why it was important to her that we not look suspicious. 

It used to be when Sharon worked a puzzle, if she came across a piece that didn't quite fit,she'd spit on it to soften the edges and forcibly shove it into the place she thought it should go.  She saw this as a great short term solution, although in terms of the big picture and the fate of the puzzle piece in question, it wasn't exactly ideal.  I was thinking today as I was taking a shower (I often do my best thinking in the shower or bath tub) about experiences in my life where I've felt like a puzzle piece that's been manipulated to fit a certain space or place.  Sometimes it's been an uncomfortable process from the beginning but I put up with it because of my own insecurities and need to fit somewhere.  At other times, it seems okay at first.  There are pieces of me that slide fairly easily into place, often when there's enough wiggle room so that I don't bump up against anything that will jar me out of my naive complacency.  Eventually, however, I begin to look around and notice that I'm not quite in sync with what's happening around me and I realize that, in terms of the big picture, I'm not where I belong.

In all these experiences though, I try to hold on to the lessons I can take with me from the experience-- even if it's as simple as "this isn't the job . . . relationship . . . breath-takingly gorgeous but terribly uncomfortable pair of shoes" for me.  The via negationis is a wise, although often under appreciated teacher. 

All the above rambling comes not only out of my musings in the shower but also from an experience I had a few weeks ago of writing and preaching a sermon for the first time in many many years.  One of those "I don't quite fit" pieces of my life occurred shortly after I graduated from seminary.  Although there were many positive lessons I got from earning a graduate degree in theology, the via negationis taught me that parish work wasn't for me.  While I tried to figure out what was for me, I ended up working part-time in a small church where, in addition to my programmatic duties, I was asked to preach several times a year. 

I may feel like someone is playing jai lai in my stomach in a social gathering where I don't know anyone but I'm pretty Zen before I get up in front of a crowd of people be it in a classroom, on a retreat, or even in a pulpit.  When that was a regular part of my life, I'd usually decide a week or two ahead of time on the text I'd be using, ponder my message until about 11 pm Saturday evening and stay up for the next few hours putting some thoughts on paper, generally in the form of an outline or bullet points.  My preaching style is definitely more conversational than rhetorical and I quickly learned that if I didn't have a narrative written out, I was more comfortable and effective engaging an audience as there wasn't the tendency to slip into simply reading the words on the paper. 
This time, however, it was different.  Maybe it was because these past few years between my personal work and my school work I've mainly been writing words to be read by people's eyes rather than heard by their ears.  Or maybe it was because I was invited to preach at a church that I was completely unfamiliar with.  Whatever the case, I struggled to get my thoughts down on paper and spent a lot of time spitting on them and trying to make them fit, which was an exercise in futility. 

After several cups of tea and repeated tapping on the delete key, I finally resorted to my old standby of pulling out a pad of paper and a pen and drew more than wrote what I wanted to convey.  Being a visual person, sometimes the linear-ness of writing on a computer just doesn't do it for me.  When I can feel the pen in my hand and bring color and shape into organizing my thoughts, it's a more organic process and in turn makes me more open to the energy and flow.  Then I can see the big picture and play with what words I have and how they fit together.  I know some people are very organized and regimented about their writing (character studies, plot outlines, etc.) and that works for best for their creative process.  I sometimes envy those people because it seems like such an efficient and productive way of operating but it would take a lot of spit to make me fit into that writing model and in the end, I'm sure what I'd produce would just end up soggy, peeling, grey and discarded, much like some of those puzzle pieces my aunt tried a little too hard to make fit. 

PS - The title of my sermon was Reading and Writing Our Stories-- about how poetry can help us reflect on and shape our lives.  Here's the link:  http://www.universalist.org/archives/000679reading_and_writing_our_stories.html#more

Lessons from a Neon Spider

Recently I took advantage of a gorgeous summer day to spread a blanket in my backyard and spend a few hours working in what I call my "summer office."  Armed with a stack of papers, my favourite pink Sharpie fine point pen and a lap top, my intention was to knock out the revisions on an essay I needed to complete before I left for my mini-vacation in Sin City (which last week they should have temporarily renamed Nap City or Read a Book City or Moan Because We're Visiting the One Week in the Year When it's Cloudy and Humid and I'm Not Getting Any Sun City-- but that's another story). 

Anyway, I spread out my Black Watch fleece blanket and was getting ready to uncap my editing pen when I noticed a speck of a neon green spider scuttling across the dark plaid.  She moved with purpose and as I'm not one of those human beings who is skittish around creepy crawly things, I scooted back to make more room for her to travel as I watched her journey.  When she got to the edge of the blanket, the spider hopped onto a blade of grass and clung to the underside with six of her eight legs as the other two were busy creating.  When the silvery thread she was spinning was long enough for her liking, she threw it to a frond about three inches away and hurried across the bridge she'd built.  She reached her destination and began spinning again, this time attaching one end of the silk to the blade of grass and then jumping into the breeze, letting the thread carry her another few centimeters across the lawn where she landed on yet another piece of grass. 

The spider continued to make her way across about a yard of yard, sometimes following a silk road she created while at others, jumping into the void and allowing the wind to carry her forward.  Eventually she made it to the base of the dogwood tree where she disappeared into the ivy encircling its trunk.

The Irish monk St. Columbanus said, and I'm paraphrasing here, if you want to know the Creator, you must first understand creation. Watching that day glo spider spin and soar made me realize that there are times, in my writing and in other areas of my life, when I feel like I need to construct bridges-- make outlines, establish safety nets, weave intricate webs to get to the next step on the journey.  There are other times, however, when I let go and jump, trusting that the ruah-- the wind or Spirit-- will take me where I need to go. Knowing when to spin and when to soar is the issue.  Watching the spider, I couldn't see any discernable rhyme or reason to which method she chose.  I finally just chalked it up to simple spider instinct.  Maybe learning to trust my own instincts was the lesson creation had for me that day.  Now to figure out what that has to teach me about the Creator . . .