You ask me, why do you listen to albums on repeat.

And I tell you, it is because there is something intrinsically similar to favorite music and lost relationships--they both end, no matter how perfect, how pristine, how filled--three minutes and thirty seconds of sheer pleasure will soon be four minutes and then ten minutes of moving on, trying to move on, when really there is no moving on from the first thirty seconds of sufjan stevens, the beatles.  And so you repeat. 

Today's words of wisdom, from Luther:

"Women ought to stay at home, the way they were created indicates this, for they have narrow shoulders and a wide fundament to sit upon."  (Volume 54, p. 8). 

(sorry. I just thought it was funny.) 

. . .

What I've been thinking about a lot in my middle-of-the-nights of solitude that is the off-days of working the night shift is that This is not going to fix itself.  And my most-loved ones in this house do and have participated, actively, in faith communities. 

All Souls unitarian church here had an interfaith celebration on mlk day, monday.  the absence of evangelical speakers in the four hour lineup was deafening to me, with the exception of an angry evangelical male preacher who lives in the gay district of Chicago and who was the only negative voice who managed to make the whole room of 1,000 uncomfortable with his self-criticism of the evangelical movement.  No one else did that.  (my poor roommate alex, who works for this church, told me they had invited Jim Wallis, who had backed out two weeks before, and that guy was the only person they could find who would agree to do it.) 

The tension, to me, is between what is done and what is believed.  You know that it has always been that way.  The fibre of the evagelical christian faith in its truest form, in which we all breathe in our sighs of relief and clarity, is that God will fill us with Godself when we wait in faith. (that language will make some people uncomfortable, so I will say it another way-- there is nothing we can do to match God's perfections and standards, it is when we let go and let God that sanctification happens.)  What I've seen that has confused me is that many people outside of evangelical christianity do not wait to act rightly, they do not wait to be told to shun materialism and unkindness and laziness and to embody a simple life of mutual respect with the people around them, they simply do it. 

Within Quakerism in its best forms, somehow, there is very little "you shoulds".  There is also very little "don't worry about it, God will sanctify you anyway."  To me Quakerism seems to rely more on, the saints who live their good lives compelling those around them to goodness over time and in relationship.  If you're one of only a few assholes in a community of beautiful people, you may eventually be able to hear just how hollow your words are as compared to the gentle words of wisdom of your worship partners, week after week after week.  And if Quakerism is for you, you'll want to change that. 

Not knowing what else to do, I've done a lot of waiting.  It hasn't been terrible.  I've managed to get less idyllic about intentional communities and also less cynical about people. 

Last week Jay told me, "the Appalachian Trail will change you, so much."  I said, "Jay, I've already changed so quickly, I've wanted to hike because I've needed to sort that out."   Jay was the first person I met before moving to DC, we talked about faith.  He was my contact with Andrew for the co op and also my first experience with the FCNL.  He hiked the AT in 2005 in 4 months and 10 days.  He lives in Bourne, Massachusetts now, and has for some time.  It's funny how people can spend relatively little time in actual proximity to you, and be of such paramount importance. 

Because reflection is a privelege and a gift.  It is sometimes very difficult for people who are in the midst of some Place, some project or experience that is different from their baseline lifestyle, to connect the pieces and summarize the importances or what they have learned. 

I leave in seven weeks, two days.  Wish me Godspeed, clarity, endurance, and stable ankles.

Today I went to church, for the first time in six months.

It was beautiful.  It always is.  Everyone was unbelievably sincere and nice.  The pastor was delightful.  The music was great.  All of what was said was right on.  And, the entire time, like every single time for over a year, I had to hold back so many tears and left without talking to anyone.  (Although the pastor was very nice and shouted goodbye to me as I made my way quickly down the steps.) 

There haven't been words to describe the feelings of overwhelming sadness that I've felt when I'm around church-y things.  I don't know why they are there.  What I do know is that they make it exceptionally difficult to sit through an entire church service, let alone engage and be vulnerable with the people around me. 

I would love to connect.  I would love to.  I would love to spend my free time (which I generally have plenty of) going to Bible studies and dinners and coffees and soup kitchens.  I just, don't have an explanation for anyone for my absence and my feelings.  And it always seems like that's a hell of a lot to pile on anyone, or expect anyone to accept.  Look at me, I don't fit here.  I lost my membership in the Christian club a while ago, and even in the best of circumstances, they check handstamps at the door.

I've been more spiritually intimate with my house than almost anyone else, in my entire life.  They've lived with me and the house has slowly developed a unique element of safety that is like nothing I've ever seen before, anywhere.  But it's interfaith.  We are not the same.  They are not That. 

There have been a slow series of events over the past few months that bring me to where I am today.  A few of us were having a conversation about the real movement of God and the first time we saw that, and I said "I've stopped asking for direction and I'm about to make the first big life decisions without guidance and it's frightening."  Alex said "Sue, you've got to find a faith community.  You've got to.  We love you but we can't be that for you."  Fast forward to two weeks ago when my adolescent mentor, Deb, had coffee with me and from a place of knowledge nailed me to the wall for not being in a Christian group at all. 

It's all of these questions of identity, you know?  Half the people knew me for twenty-two long years.  The other half know me now.  Those are two completely different people.  Both groups are telling me to not forget about who I was, but I'm not the same person.  I'm just not.  I'm ashamed of it.  I am.  Trust me.  I wish I could be proud of some sort of a meaningful life evolution, but it's like I stood there and watched somebody bulldoze my spiritual childhood home.  It's not that God is dead.  It's just that I don't know how to make sense of the intimacy I have with people who are not That, and I sure as hell won't throw them away.  But the people who knew me before are trying to call me back because they knew who I was and it was real. 

Don't you see?  It's a club.  It's a club that only evangelical christians are a part of, and all of your most intimate dialogue, your most intimate friendships, your most intimate partnerships, your secrets and your dreams, your vulnerability....all of that stays inside.  It doesn't go outside.  You can be nice, you can have coffee with people from work and whatnot, but You know the things that are supposed to stay inside.  But I took all that outside and accidentally found out that I feel more myself than I did before and I feel like there is more truth in so many ways, I feel a release to just be myself and yes Deb, I feel more accepted, damnit.  But now the pieces don't fit anymore because Christians don't talk to people about their inside things who don't have The Ultimate Peace and Joy and Truth.  So what use would they have for me now?  What man would want me, what church would want me?  

Why does it matter?  It matters because without all that there's nothing to connect the dots.  There's nothing to explain why I should keep on with my difficult position of living every single day in ungentrified poverty-ridden corrupt filthy Georgia Avenue and going to work in the busiest downtown emergency room in Washington D.C.  I want to stay because my eyes have been opened to a million lies and there's nothing more that I want than to spend the rest of my life, advocating for the voiceless.  But without all that, why I am here?  Why am I here.  Fuck it all, with no answers I'll move to the suburbs and make 50 dollars an hour working in some community hospital and make little white babies and have a delightful, self-centered life. 

Ben called it The Chatter.  All of those voices inside that tell you you're not doing enough, you're not trying hard enough, the voices that tell you there is no hope and the Forces will always win, the chatter that paralyzes you and kills your focus and drive.  I want to quiet the chatter and I know that God does many, many things but He definitely quiets chatter. 

Deb and I were brainstorming of a sort and she said "it's the people, and it's not the people."   I thought that was incredibly profound.  It's the people that we reach out for, that we care for, that we break for, that we live for.  But the people aren't God.  I think it's my central paradox. 

It's about identity.  I talked to someone recently who made me realize that some people don't have a centralized worldview or life's purpose, instead they shift around between different values and models.  And that's not me, I realized.  I really do, believe that people are created and planned, and that God is active in peoples' personal lives, and that it matters. 

That being said, I still cry in church.  But I'll try to go again.

Ben moved out today.

We all bundled into my car and drove to National airport and gave hugs and he wandered away, through security, just like Andrew did what seems like an eternity ago.  And we turned around, walked back through the terminal, and drove home.  And he's really, really gone.

. 

When you live with people, like this, there are a million tiny things that you know and you love.  There is no one here that I have, and would, and will not miss beyond words after a permanent separation.  There is no one.

I know that when I leave dc there will be many things that I will want to remember and forget and things that I will want to forget that will remain on and on--

but down georgia avenue, last night like so many nights the air was incense. 

it's true. sometimes it's bad.  but the air is heavy, and it's incense. 

already when I form the memories in my head the garden is full of different greens, each cramped house with its front porch is a family and a life, and the hot dusky air is dark and thick and full of incense. 

and I don't think---that I will ever really know--