They exist without permission.
They are hated, hunted and persecuted.
They live in quiet desperation amongst the filth.
And yet they are capable of bringing entire civilisations to their knees.

If you are dirty, insignificant and unloved then rats are the ultimate role model.
-Banksy, Wall and Piece

Street rats are not pets. They are not white and fluffy. They do not purr. There is an evolutionary pecking order that says things that live in garbage heaps do not get to come indoors. We ascribe to this, most of us; we follow the wisdom of survival. We succeed.

The teacher I love says:

“Fuck it. Fuck the pecking order. Put it on its head. The first shall be last. The last shall be first. The street rats will reveal wisdom to the bichon frises.”

(It’s a loose translation.)

This is who we are supposed to be paying attention to—those who society views as rats—to the dirty and the disenfranchised, to the unwelcomed and the unwanted. We think we are called to be with these who live on the uncouth edges of our metropolis because they need us–because we of the 9-5 paycheck and the college degree have the method and the means to bring them out of the sewers and into the light.

But the truth is, we need them. The truth is, we need each other.

I have these friends Deborah and Ken. They are a generation ahead of me, wise elders with children my own age. Ken and Deborah have been pastors for years now, at least a decade, maybe two. When they started it was all about name-it-and-claim: church buildings the size of basketball stadiums and prosperity gospel paving their way with streets with gold. And they were good at it. Their kingdom had no rats.

Then one day, they left. They didn’t know where they were going, only that where they had been wasn’t it. Ken left his suits behind and shaved his head. Deborah started the nubs of dreadlocks. They moved to Portland. They fell in love. With whom? Homeless people – the kind of ragged corner dwellers most people consider to be just above street rats. Teens with ragged hoodies and holes in all their clothing. Kids with nicotine staining their fingers and rancid socks on their feet. Men who hadn’t had the chance to bathe in days, who lived in sub-basements they accessed by squeezing between boarded up holes.

Deborah and Ken didn’t sees street rats. They saw miracles. People who looked out for each other and tried to keep things safe. Kids who made art on scraps of cardboard, and the rough surface of the pavement. Souls which made music and wrote poetry. Individuals who were, undeniably, both tragic and beautiful.

Within the lives of Deborah and Ken, these rats have caused a revolution. There is no more mega-church, there are no three pieces suits. Instead there’s couple just getting by; a lack of insurance and retirement funds; and a group of people –with and without homes—trying to make sure everyone can get by. There are sandwiches, and coffee; blankets and art supplies; advocacy with the police and rides to the shelter–and there are two 50-something grown-ups ready to hand out parental-style love. Sometimes all of this is inside, and sometimes it is under a bridge, or on a street corner, or in an alley – but wherever it is, it is, in my opinion, Kingdom Come. The street rats have turned the kingdom on its head.

Could we live like this—as people who could learn from the invisibles–either because Jesus asked us to, or because our souls are asking us to? The next time we see a rat, could we avoid looking away? Could we avoid standing on the chair and wacking it with a broom? What if, together, we watched the rat instead, and saw where it went? What if we saw how hard it worked to survive, or how prolific it managed to be even in the midst of hardship and squalor? What if we ask him or her to teach us, to be patient with our ignorance, to show us a new way? Could we get a new perspective? Could we help ourselves and others? Could we have a rat as our role models?

Support Ken and Deborah’s “friends without homes” at Home.PDX. Learn more here. Visit the site. Donate!

Visit more Sacred Life bloggers or join the journey, click here.

A year has passed since Jen and I set up the Small is Beautiful revolution in the hopes of supporting small, passionate bloggers while they find their writing voice. Like the proverbial snowball rolling downhill, the list of people taking the pledge and adding the button swiftly grew to first dozens, then, to a hundred, and then more than I could track. New people join every day, and the blog roll which was once something I could update in ten minutes is now so large I’ve had to complete give it up! It’s amazing to know that so many storytellers are out there, trying to identify the meaningful in their lives and in the lives of others.

As BlogHer 08 in San Francisco rapidly approaches, it dawns on me how much I wanted to be there and a how I longed to serve as a sort of emotive chaplain, helping people embrace their call to write. But now I live in Denmark (Denmark!) and BlogHer is but a far away wish.

Still, many MANY of you will be there, sharing your ideas and your laughter with others who are bringing women’s voices to the forefront of the new journalism – blogging in all its wonderful pell-mell forms. I hope you will find each other, gather at round tables, and share the passions you have for writing down that which is wonderful.

Small is Beautiful is under severe disrepair right now. The html is broken; we can’t find a way to do an automated opt-in blog roll with categorization; we need those same folks to be able to opt-in to an email list–and I really don’t know what to do about any of it. I am, as they say, ‘in over my head.’

I still believe that small is powerful, and that a network of small bloggers can support one another in ways that no big name recognition can provide. So I appeal to you, our tiny community, for help and advice. If you have solutions, or willingness to do some cleanup work in the SIB garden, drop a note in the comments or email me or Jen. (Contact into here.)

In meantime, remember: Your story is important. May you sing it from the rooftops.

Yours in tininess,

Rachelle

Katrina sent me this story in response to the post “God Sticks and Shame Caves, which has moved many of you to tell your tales. She is someone I trust, whose wisdom is not theoretical but lived–hard won from experience and reflection. I’m grateful to Katrina for guest posting today, and feel confident that her story will give many of you hope and inspiration for the journey.

Sensuality Recovered
Guest Post: Katrina

I was staffing at a women’s retreat a few months ago, and a woman who had been an exotic dancer in a younger life and who was trained in various “tantric healing” techniques led us in some fascinating processes. She told us her own story of being lured into prostitution as a young girl, and of her escape, as well as her journey of fully embracing herself as a sexual, sensual woman who has truly freed herself from shame. She led us in a long exercise of breathingand meditation designed to cleanse us of our own shame, whether assigned to us by ourselves or others. We held hands and talked each other through a variety of memories: from the disquieting sensation “not feeling pretty enough” to the violence of rape and molestation.

After some tear-shedding and embracing, the energy in the room was lighter, freer. From that perspective, we moved into movement and dance, and eventually into sensual dance. Many of the women were overweight and/or middle-aged, and there was, at first, palpable resistance. The facilitator told us stories of how sensuality has been taught in other, older—surely wiser–cultures. It was the women, the elder-women, who had taught the younger women how to move, how to dance, how to be sexy, how to feel sensual. It was not the pressure of the media or the men, or the market forces felt by women to compete for scarce resources of desirable mates. We marveled at the thought… what if sensuality could be like treasured knowledge, passed down at the appropriate time from woman to woman, like sacred family recipes or heirlooms?

We were all instructed to get a chair. Yes, we were going to do “chair dancing.” (i.e., using chairs as a prop for dancing, see Cabaret or Flashdance for suggestions…) We began to use our new props with some hesitation and awkwardness. Thenthe facilitator did something brilliant. She instructed us to blindfold ourselves. With our self-consciousness visibly muted and with a little help from some encouraging music, we were transformed into smokin-hot middle-aged goddesses. Then the blindfolds came off, and we gathered in a circle and danced for each other. We danced individually, in pairs, in groups, with and without chairs, sarongs, and other props. We encouraged each other on to be as sexy as possible, sexier than we thought was possible, egging each other on with whoops and catcalls. Women who would barely dance an hour earlier were “shaking what their mommas gave ‘em” with joy and abandonment. The women who left that night were not the same women who came in. They had regained, or perhaps even discovered for the very first time, a treasure buried deep within themselves: their own sensuality. Not the crude sexuality of an X-rated film or the performance of a stripper seeking tips from bachelor party participants, but the sensuality that represents our true sacred, feminine, creative selves. Through our dancing, we had celebrated ourselves as women created in the image of the Divine, and declared this creation “good.”

Katrina has gracious agreed to write a follow up post with her thoughts on connecting the dots between this experience, what she was taught as a young person, and what she is teaching her teenage daughter. Check back next week, or follow me on Twitter and I’ll let you know when it has arrived. Thank you for your presence here. -Rachelle

Follow this Series:

This I Believe: Why I’m not Teaching My Kids Abstinence

Thoughts from the Comment Gallery: Abstinence, Kids, and Faith

God Sticks and Shame Caves

Beyond Fear, Encouraging Each Other Towards Escape

The Care and Keeping of Sacred Stories

There are things I believe in at bedrock level—ideas I cannot imagine myself without. The kind of stuff you feel like you might carry around in your genetic blueprint.

Yet as strong as my passion is for these ideas, I know the list could change – the list has changed. There are definitely fewer ideologies I feel confident of these days. But if anything, the ones that remain have become stronger, more distilled with age.

These are them, these are they. If I could wear them on a t-shirt I would.

In case you are interested. In case you’d like to know more.

*8 Things: I Believe

1. “You have to use art to preach”

2. “God does not have a penis.”

3. “Make dialogue, not debate, your primary language.”

4. “I heart pagans.”

5. “Gentlemen, kindly own your own shit.”

6. “Christianity is extending the loving hand of Christ to the world.”

7. “Jesus got ‘jacked.”

8. “I speak patriarchy, but it’s not my mother tongue.”

If you’re feeling ready to make/write/create/do something, one of these will give you new ideas and encourage you on. If you don’t have time for your regular work of writing/painting/carving monuments out of marble, then these books will let you slip things in around the edges. Several of them work well across age groups and can be used for collaborative art with the young ones. Happy creating, and thanks for supporting Magpie Girl! (More reviews at here, if you’re curious…)

Since I’ve let the cat out of the bag regarding what I truly believe about sexuality and faith (or at least some bits of it) women are finding me anyway they can. Through the comments and contact info on this site, via facebook and twitter, even in my flickr mail. Not to argue with me, or to tell me I’m wrong. But to give me the gift of their stories. Stories about receiving messages of shame regarding their bodies. Stories of regret regarding about not having sex, or feeling bad about it when they did. Stories of pain and loss and confusion. And best of all, stories of recovery and hope.

Dear ones, we must to do something about taking care of all these precious stories.

My soulsister Jen Lemen has embedded the importance of stories deep in my being. Like her, I am “helplessly in love with the idea that stories can change you and me forever.” Furthermore, this I believe: it is within our power to allow our stories to shape us for the good, to bring us healing, and to draw us towards shalom.

I am still relatively new to this world of stories and am I’m learning to harness their redemptive power. Still, I am sure, that together we can we can hold these stories “in all tenderness,” and let their power sing from the rooftops.

So here friends, is what I know right now about telling stories:

• Embody your stories. Write them in a journal; capture them in images torn from magazines and picture books; jot them in lines of poems; create them in smears of color; or distill them into lists of words. Just sit down with a pen, or a keyboard, or a paintbrush and say “I don’t know, I don’t know…” until the knowing comes and the story flows. The first step is acknowledging they are real, that you are real.

• Name your stories. Give them titles and subtitles. Let them have a one-word identifier. Line them up in a number system. Naming is powerful. When we name something we can better hold it in our hands. When you hold a story cupped in your palm you can decide to continue holding it like a treasure –or you can let it slide past your finger tips and release it: to let it guide others; or to let it companion other story holders who have otherwise felt alone; or to watch slide away past your finger tips, because you no longer need to carry it.

• Speak your stories outloud. Let your voice sound out into an empty room. Tell a friend over tea. Record yourself on you cell phone’s voice mail. Giving voice, literally giving voice to your stories can be in turns affirming, empowering, releasing, and healing.

There is more here, waiting to be formed into words and continued into practice. There’s something about what to do with painful stories. How to say “this really happened.” How to know “I am bigger than this story.” How to let your painful stories catapult you onto bigger, better tales. I can’t quite get it into words yet, but it’s marinating. In time—with your help, with your stories and comments and ideas and intuitive know-how—we will find it together. In time, it will come.

Will you do this work with me? Will you be brave –a little or a lot—and let your stories sing? Start writing. Start blogging. Start painting. Start giving birth to the poet on your tongue. Start making lists of words you do not understand, drawing lines–literally, on the page with a marker, drawing lines–between things you did not know were connected. Start commenting. (Use a pseudonym if you want. I’ll screen all the comments. I won’t let anyone yell at you. I’ll do my best to keep your story safe.) In the worlds of my soulsister, “Something healing this way comes.”

I hope you will go out and let stories happen to you and that you will work them, and water them, with your blood and tears and laughter ‘till they bloom, ‘till you yourself burst into bloom.

-Clarissa Pinkola Estes

Now, for a limited time, random days of the week will become “8 Things” days, in which I will list 8 things on a themed list.

This week: “*8 Things I Believe.” See them first on Twitter, where they’ll run through the day. Follow me! (So free! So fun!)

If any of these make you go, “Hmmmm…” let me know and I’ll try to blog more about them.

Caution: This is an attempt by the management to quiten down her monkey mind. We shall see what happens….

May light dominate your life in these coming days.
May the moments of darkness be far outnumbered by the presence of light.

When you next gather around the table in your homes may you remember light, and love, and the sun.

May these moments of holy time help us all to remember that the world spins, and the tide turns and the nights grow shorter – and regardless of our will or our work, the gift of Light Returning happens over and over and over again.

May the blessing of light be upon you –
Light without and light within.
May the blessed sunlight shine on you like a great fire,
So that stranger and friend may come and warm themselves at it.

-a traditional Celtic blessing

The front porch of our Seattle home.

Dear Catie,

I know Momma’s all over the world say this at nearly every birthday for nearly every child, but I cannot believe you are eight years old! You have such a sweet little voice, and the top of your head still smells like baby hair – so I often forget how much you have grown up!

The child development books say there are years of equilibrium and years of dis-equilibrium, and this has been an unbalanced year for you. You’ve done a great job, and worked hard at growing up, but it has been hard and sometimes you have been tired.

Seven has reminding me a lot of three, with my golden-haired baby suddenly errupting into ‘the rage mister.’ Daddy and I have tried to teach you that it’s okay to be angry. But that anger shouldn’t be thrown at other people. You’ve worked hard to get your anger into a reasonable level so that you don’t hurt the dog or your sissy with scary voices or mean words. I’m proud of you! And you are doing very VERY well at figuring out what emotion is hiding behind anger’s big noise. Did you know that a lot of grown-ups can’t even do that! You are so awesome!

This year we moved away from Seattle to Denmark. It was a HUMONGOUS change, and you are handling it really, really well. I know you are frustrated that you don’t speak Danish yet (especially because Sissy does.) But you understand SO much, and you are already making Danish friends. So don’t worry, you will speak it soon. And don’t worry about forgetting English either. I promise you will always remember your English words. You don’t have to trade one for the other.

Your superpower of Friendship has definitely been able to Shine this year! You made such close friends with sweet Claire before we left, and every kid in class wrote amazing things about you in your goodbye book. I’ll never forget you reading that book so tenderly, and not even wanting to share it with mommy at first, because you knew how precious all those words were. You cried a little and said, “Mommy, I wish I could just call all these friends and say ‘thank you’ because they said SUCH nice things about me!” And do you know what baby? They are all true! Just yesterday Daddy said that you have special aura about you that draws people to you. Everyone says they notice you because you have such cute hair, but Daddy thinks it is because of your superpower. People are drawn to you because you are such a good friend. I guess that’s why every kid on the street waves to me – even though I don’t know them—and then says to their Mom or the friend they are walking with, ‘Det er Cate’s Moa’ (That’s Cate’s Mom!) Everyone knows Cate because she is good friend!

You are going to get to do such amazing things this year! Go back to drum or piano lessons. Sail to an island in the Danish sea. And because sculpture is your favorite, we will go to Italy so you can see the very best sculpture in the whole world. I can’t wait to see you looking up at those amazing Michelangelo’s! By this time next year you will have a whole slew of new friends on your playdate schedule; a half dozen new pins on your ‘where I’ve been’ map; and maybe even a solo airplane flight to sail with Grandma and Grandpa on the Lady Penelope!

Thank you for being my younger (not little!) daughter, and for being the best cuddler in the whole wide world. I love you, ‘Baby’ Cate!

-Moa

It’s the night of Summer solstice. At home in Seattle the sun is at its highest right now, and hopefully the skies are clear to give the locals some much-onged for warmth during this cold Summer on this, their most treasured day. Here in Copenhagen–which is not yet home—the sun is starting to set, though the light has barely ebbed. Well after ten o’clock I can still read easily in the twilight glow that’s stretching over our high city balcony.

John Mayer is in town, the poet whose blues have sustained me through these strange and wrenching times. I searched for tickets—begged, borrowed and threatened to steal in two languages—but alas, none were to be found. Instead I’m sneaking smokes and playing all the live songs I could download one after another too loudly through the open windows of the living room. Message in Bottle (which I once heard Sting perform on an awkward date in an enormous arena). My Stupid Mouth (The Blogger’s Lament.) 83 (whimsical. nostalgic.) And finally, Gravity, my touchstone, my anchor.

I have been dreading this day, alone and away from my community on one of our most holy days. Paul is at a work party. One which has a reputation for being a bit of an orgy. One to which spouses are not invited. The girls are asleep after what for me was an exhausting night of homemade pizza, sing-a-long movies, and reading aloud extraordinary long chapters of Harry Potter. The grand finale for mom was one of those long, drawn out bedtimes only clever children can create, and enough dishes to make a restaurateur cry. But now that I’m here, alone with the dog, listening to John and watching the swallows dart after invisible insects; I find that I am actually okay in with this solitude, watching the sun slip into sleep, being grateful for the light.

At Stonehenge this morning the sun crested over softly arching hills, struck the blue-hued Heelstone, and drove its light between the arches of the great trilithon. Hundreds were there in dreadlocks and druid robes, smelling of travel and patchouli, trying to name something unnamable, making it up as they go along. Isn’t that what we all do? Cobble something together from shards of history and intuitive pull? Look for the meeting point between what we know and what we hope to be true?

I was at Stonehenge not long ago, fresh from the opulence of Europe’s finest cathedrals, ready to be unimpressed by a ring of stones surrounded by security fencing. I was surprised to find such holiness there, walking in a round where people have paced for thousands of years; waiting for the shard of light to crack the sky; hoping for a life continued. I followed the tour and when I reached the Heelstone, paused to touch its side. As I felt the warmth of the sarsen stone under my hand, I noticed a young woman walking counter clockwise to the organized tour, her shoes in her hand, her feet on holy ground. Seeing her example, I wanted suddenly to sink to my knees. It was all I could to do still my voice, to not incant ‘Holy, Holy, Holy.’ But I was unaccustomed of being a stranger in a strange land for so many long months, worn down from always sticking out, from always being obvious. I did not have the confidence to kneel in front of so many tourists in windbreakers and cameras. (Who knew the bending of the knee could be an act requiring so much strength?) Iinstead I stayed my hand on the stone, leaned my weight into my palm, and let my soul pour out thanks. Gratitude for the light. Gratitude for continuance. Gratitude for all that we need to go on.

It was not, and this is not, the Solstice I have come to remember. It is not the riotous and ridiculous parade; the familiar and homespun pageant built with our own hands; the silly, colorful crowd of thousands. Instead it is a new lesson in holy moments—stumbled upon alone (yet with casts of thousands now past); a mishmash of vices and virtues, of new songs and old stones. I feel as though I am soaking somehow in this history, in this present, and in the sun—always our promise of a future. I am melted. I am melded, somehow, me in this chair alone. And I think—held in this mystery of solitude amidst the companionship of souls—I think as the sun now fades, “Dayenu, it is enough.”

Every year around her birthday, Cate pretty much freaks out. When she was 3 she was nicknamed ‘the ragemiester,’ and whenever she goes through stages of transition she reverts emotionally to the screaming stage.

Last week Cate was driving me crazy – screaming at her sister, giving up games and projects at the slightest road block, dragging her heals around her chores. Finally she came into the kitchen and saying: “Moa? Moa? Moaaaaaaah?”

My first impulse was to snap at her, but a little bell rang inside me and I got down at eye level instead. “What do you need Cate?” She looked at me with a surprised look, and then stared around kind of blankly. Finally she said, “I can’t remember…I…um…I think I just need some extra attention.”

I was pretty proud of her just then—sussing out her emotional needs like that. So we sat down on the floor and she cuddled up next to me and we talked about this and that for awhile. Eventually she said, “Moa. I don’t want to have a party for my birthday.” I was surprised to hear that, seeing as she had been making invitation lists for weeks.

“Why not?” I asked.

“Because it will be so noisy. And there will be too much kids. And there has to be games and everyone has to get a prize and people are sad if they don’t get the prize they want and I get mad because I don’t even think they should get prizes and attention because it’s my birthday! (pause) And also, it’s a lot of Danish.”

Once again, pretty impressed. Instead of a party Catie decided to take her friend Elsa to a local amusement park for the day. She knew it meant less presents, but it didn’t seem to bother her, and there was ice cream in the deal, with sprinkles — or possibly a cotton candy as big as her head–so really, what more could you want?

Before I became a mother, I assumed kid-birthdays were fun. I remember mine as being really fun. Then again, I have a distinct memory of sobbing my head off at my sixth birthday because my grandfather cut the ear off the panda bear cake. (I’m not sure what I thought would happen to the cake, but I sure didn’t want that panda to get cut up.) I’d never really considered how frightening it can be to mover deeper into being a ‘big kid’ each year, or how overwhelming some kids might find the sugar-fueled celebrations. Ans as much as Moa isn’t ready for her little one to get so big so fast, maybe the little one isn’t all that ready either.

So here are some tips and tactics we’ve tried to help ease the transition into the next level of bigness. I hope some of them will help if your child has a hard time around birthdays.

-As the big day approaches (and for some time afterwards, perhaps) carve out some extra time to spend with your child one-one-one.

-Look through a photo album together and talk about fun things that happened in each age/stage of your child’s development. Assure them that there are good things around the corner.

-Be extra faithful to any comfort rituals you have already established with your child – bed time routines, read-a-loud habits, special suppers .(Friday is pizza night around here.) These familiar rites may be especially important during this time of transition. Try not to let the busyness of birthday plans push out the everyday anchor points.

-Limit family activities in the weeks surrounding the birthday. Don’t over tax the child with ‘fun’ events.

-Try to find out what kind of celebration would feel best to your child. (A big party with pals? A fun outing with one friend? A special date with mom, dad, or family?)

-Talk about presents in advance and try to set reasonable expectations. – Will there be any presents? ((A lot of the familys we are friends with only do a gift from mom and dad, not from friends, on birthdays.) Does the child expect one present or many? Do they want ‘outing’ presents (movie tickets, trips to the aquarium) or ‘things’ presents?

-If family members tend to send ‘birthday money,’ talk about how that can be used if there is a special present the child wants, but doesn’t received. Doing some advance work on this may help cushion any disappointment on the big day.

-If you do have a party remember this rule of thumb: “the age of the child plus one” is a good guideline for how many kids to invite. More than that is tough for a kid to handle.

-Remember that often, the most memorable things about childhood birthdays are the simplest traditions – the fact that the birthday kids got to pick out the evening meal, or that the family always sang their favorite song to them at dinner time.

What are your tips for helping your child through growing-up transitions and birthday excitement overkill?

Cross-posted with other Magpie Mama parenting advice at Minti.com.

Now before you go getting all up in arms, be assured that at the time, I loved growing up in church. In my traditional Christian years there were many things that were beneficial and good for me. Somehow, in spite of the overemphasis on personal holiness, I did learn to look out for others. I was captured by the concept of transformation – the idea that healing, change, and forgiveness were always available and can change the world. Also, I was nurtured by the rhythms of the liturgical year and holy celebrations. I felt grounded in a long history of faith and forbearers. I had a good sense of call and a passion that lent energy to my work and to my living. At times I even had euphoric experiences of the presence of the Divine, which I will never forget. And sometimes I felt so happy to be celebrating with a community, so sure that I had a place to belong, that I thought my heart would be split from the joy of it.

But even in the midst of all those things, the emotional memory I carry with me most –at least at this stage of my life—is the pervasive feeling of shame I carried throughout my religious life, and the accompanying fear of doing something shame-full that came with it. Right now, when I think back on my life in the church, this feeling of shame and fear is a filmy substance stretched tight across my heart –an emotional thumbprint of angst and self-disappointment. My chest tightens and my throat constricts with anxiety. It is very visceral, very real, and it does not good to just close my eyes and hope it goes away.

I’ve been thinking about this personal reality for years now–literally for years—trying to assess how it came about; trying to imagine if there was or is any way of being in church without this experience. I don’t know the answer to that yet, but what continues to astonish me is that I lived in it for so long. I’m not a young woman. It’s not like I’m 20 years old and leaving my parent’s church for the first time to find out there are other things out there. I’m nearly 40 years old, and I’ve spent a good twenty of those years studying theology, working in various religious institutions, and writing about spirituality. But it’s only in the past—what—year? 18 months?—that I have really said goodbye to the institution that has caused so much damage. (It’s only recently I’ve been able to walk back in there from time to time without feeling like they were “pulling me back in”.) I’m a pretty strong person. I don’t naturally tend to tow the line. So what kept me in there so long?

Shah Afshar at Shawshanked Redemption has some thoughts on the matter. In his post Whatever Happened To Honor: Part II, Shah writes about Martin Seligman’s theory of “Learned Helplessness”, a phenomenon that occurs when one is in a situation which continually causes them pain. In Shah’s words, what Seligman found was

Subjected to repeated punishment, animals and humans come to believe they have no control over what happens to them, whether they actually do or not. In Seligman’s original experiment, dogs given repeated electrical shocks would prostrate themselves and whine, even when escaping the abuse lay within their power. [Emphasis mine]

Shah goes on to detail what kinds of behaviors cause Learned Helplessness, and why they allow the institution to continue to function in its status quo. The thing that most captured me about the Seligman’s experiment was this:

It was noted that the only way to get the helpless dog out of its cage was to send in another dog that had never been shocked. With the gate left open, upon receiving the first jolt of electricity, the new dog would bolt out of the cage and by doing so, it would teach the helpless dog to get out as well.

Now, as a writer I’m aware that in the literary tradition, using any metaphor relating ‘human’ to ‘dog’ is not an especially good one. But if we can get around our metaphorical habit for a minute and not associate being dog-like to being something negative, then I’d like to say this:

I’d like to start being a new dog—specifically the one that comes to the scared dog in the cage. Now, I’ve been shocked. Plenty of times I’ve been shocked. And sadly, because I was a church leader and a pastor, I’m pretty sure I’ve shocked others. (This is one of my deepest regrets.) But lately, I’ve been feeling a little bit healed up from the shocks, and I think, maybe, I have enough energy to run in and out of the cage.

That’s what I hope my blog (and maybe someday my book) can do. This is what I hope my writing can be: the redemptive action of dashing in and out of the cage, of demonstrating with energy and eagerness that there is a way out. Maybe even a way out that doesn’t require us to give up our spirituality, or our faith—maybe we can even hold on to Jesus, if we want to. Who knows? It’s possible.

When I wrote about this in my latest manuscript proposal (especially request by a publisher, who, sadly was never heard from again), I put it this way:

My main intent is to provide a map for the journey towards a new expression of faith. When we move into previously unexplored territory we sail into places where the sea charts read, “Here there be monsters.” But the monsters we fear do not exist. A bit of illumination along the unknown edges can reveal that there are no vicious creatures lying in wait, but only new, wide open places to explore.

I have been sailing these seas for a while now, and have begun to discern a pattern in these currents. There is a process to this faith re-formation, and it is possible to retain and rebuild one’s faith in the midst of this sea change. People should know the experience they are having is not a random and isolated event. There are stages in this journey that can help them find their way. Furthermore, there are traveling companions, and tools to help readers reconnect with the God in a way that is true to their spiritual core.

Unlike the early adaptors who traveled before them, the current generation of postmodern seekers does not need to feel alone and lost in foreign seas. Those of us who have already sailed these waters can be good with-mates. Help is at hand.

I think that’s true. I think it can happen, you and I holding hands and moving out and forward and into a newly imagined future. I believe we can do it. Don’t you?

Play us out boys…

But even better than a fun read, is a fun read that’s also well crafted. Those, dear friends, are hard to find. So here’s a little list for you all — a brand new carousel full of great reads for road trips, backyard hammocks, and days at the lake. I hope you find something you love amongst these treasures I love. And remember, anything you purchased by clicking on a link helps support this blog. Tak, and good reading!

Grandma’s hands are gnarled by arthritis, so I help her cut her steak. She weighs about 95 pounds these days, but she eats with relish. “Ummm.This steak is so good. Ummmm! Can I try your shrimp? ”

After the margarita and before I can surreptitiously chug most of her wine, Grandma picks up her glass and leans over to me conspiratorially.

“I got a tattoo, you know.”

This happened a year ago. Grandma, at 82, had been suddenly longing for a tattoo, and talked about it incessantly. Finally, my Aunt, in an uncharacteristic burst of caregiver frustration said, “Fine, Mom! Go get a tattoo!” My rebel cousin, Eric, was there at the time, and he and Grandma decided to take that as a go-ahead. The next week Eric and Grandma went on a field trip. When they got back, both cuz’ and granny had new ink.

“It’s an angel on my shoulder.” Here, Grandma paused for a dramatic swig of the house white, “I have my beliefs you know!”

Indeed I do know, though I’ve had to listen between the lines to find them. Grandma, always the spunky edge dweller, never towed the protestant line. Instead she knit together a spirituality that combined a little of big of Blackfoot folklore; a strong pull towards the mountains; and some affection for Jesus on the side. This angel — a small smear of blue-green ink on the soft wrinkled skin of her shoulder–this is her guide now, helping her through the drawn out years of her ‘final days’, and into the unknown and unknowable hereafter.

I take heart in my Grandma’s tattoo, in her love for the hillside she re-planted with pines after the fire, for her sudden insistence that all the great-grandchildren have leather-clad Bibles with their names embossed in gold. She has created her own path–godward, onward. In these, her final days, when stories spill out of her like down from a pillow, she has helped me to see that my gender, my era, and my distracted spiritual self can help me find the way to my most soul-felt home.

Me, Grandma Pauline, and Paul making faces for Eden’s camera.

Read more great stories about wise elders in this week’s column at BlogHer.com.

Next week I’m highlighting posts about the Summe Solstice. If you blog about the Light this week, send your permalink to moi at magpie dash girl dot com.