tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-71591665727740504782024-03-14T02:06:45.141-07:00A Fire By NightFire in the darkness.
Creative faith.Christi Krughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10207062849832227699noreply@blogger.comBlogger135125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7159166572774050478.post-49657598827342195452023-06-11T12:37:00.000-07:002023-06-12T10:19:29.674-07:00Beautiful Bodies or Sinful Flesh?<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTgA8XI81bV391_13yZOGe43DvMalsFmb_rr6suR8WNyCKL_IPuVMt4qnS1sp6o2in_LzcfpeDt_6MeB_YDJhjFWdn5q_43I1oFRBRjfY8ygosZJiRSA24YMMJnkTZNgjBEUG2UyAHsKQ9jgBZh2e5IsOk-w0nkVWJTvdwFBiU5_kV_B1Abr7b72gz/s3254/IMG_4161.HEIC" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1861" data-original-width="3254" height="229" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgTgA8XI81bV391_13yZOGe43DvMalsFmb_rr6suR8WNyCKL_IPuVMt4qnS1sp6o2in_LzcfpeDt_6MeB_YDJhjFWdn5q_43I1oFRBRjfY8ygosZJiRSA24YMMJnkTZNgjBEUG2UyAHsKQ9jgBZh2e5IsOk-w0nkVWJTvdwFBiU5_kV_B1Abr7b72gz/w400-h229/IMG_4161.HEIC" width="400" /></a></div><br /><p></p><p style="margin-left: 160px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">We awaken in Christ’s body<br />
as Christ awakens our bodies,<br />
and my poor hand is Christ, He enters<br />
my foot, and is infinitely me.<span id="more-7539"></span></span></p><div style="margin-left: 160px; text-align: left;">
</div><p style="margin-left: 160px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I move my hand, and wonderfully<br />
my hand becomes Christ, becomes all of Him<br />
(for God is indivisibly<br />
whole, seamless in His Godhood).</span></p><div style="margin-left: 160px; text-align: left;">
</div><p style="margin-left: 160px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I move my foot, and at once<br />
He appears like a flash of lightning.<br />
Do my words seem blasphemous?—Then<br />
open your heart to Him</span></p><div style="margin-left: 160px; text-align: left;">
</div><p style="margin-left: 160px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">and let yourself receive the one<br />
who is opening to you so deeply.<br />
For if we genuinely love Him,<br />
we wake up inside Christ’s body</span></p><div style="margin-left: 160px; text-align: left;">
</div><p style="margin-left: 160px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">where all our body, all over,<br />
every most hidden part of it,<br />
is realized in joy as Him,<br />
and He makes us, utterly, real,</span></p><div style="margin-left: 160px; text-align: left;">
</div><p style="margin-left: 160px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">and everything that is hurt, everything<br />
that seemed to us dark, harsh, shameful,<br />
maimed, ugly, irreparably<br />
damaged, is in Him transformed</span></p><div style="margin-left: 160px; text-align: left;">
</div><p style="margin-left: 160px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">and recognized as whole, as lovely,<br />
and radiant in His light<br />
he awakens as the Beloved<br />
in every last part of our body.</span></p><p style="margin-left: 160px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">—Symeon the New Theologian (949-1022) </span></p><p style="margin-left: 160px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span> </span>Translation by Stephen Mitchell</span></p><p style="margin-left: 160px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></p><p style="margin-left: 120px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> Growing up in church, I often heard about "the flesh," how sinful it was; it could never be trusted, for it would lead you astray. </span></p><p style="margin-left: 120px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">For decades, I ignored my body. What it whispered, wanted, hungered for. All the trauma that was lodged deep within it.<br /></span></p><p style="margin-left: 120px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Now I see that those teachings on "the flesh" were poisonous. The body wants and needs to be heard, noticed, honored. How else could healing happen?</span></p><p style="margin-left: 120px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">Wonder of wonders, the Divine presence awakens in our very fingerpads, digestive tracts, eardrums, thighs, corpuscles. </span></p><p style="margin-left: 120px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I've become a champion for the body, no longer viewing it as suspicious, sinful, or evil.<br /></span></p><p style="margin-left: 120px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;">I now advocate for soothing, stretching, twirling, toning, wiggling, dancing, napping, loving, and listening to this beautiful center, where, amazingly, the Holy comes to live.<br /></span></p><p style="margin-left: 120px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><br /></span></p><p style="margin-left: 160px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> </span></p><p style="margin-left: 160px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"> <br /></span></p><p style="margin-left: 160px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: georgia;"><span> </span> <br /></span></p>Christi Krughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10207062849832227699noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7159166572774050478.post-79675694878247021242020-09-04T10:07:00.003-07:002020-09-04T10:07:43.002-07:00How to Become Somebody New<p> </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL8GbcIS-c3YDBWZrN5jQFeeqvNrkke937nB6wmP_z_8x_BkcK1XQyQ_GzWYeVPxPVutTvtI-rbY6Fak8GLW3ihWLdSCuZEvANpfQzJRi9j7mlrcqdEVAjlkKlOUenMX28kX4CojoXS-8/s857/IMG_8808.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="857" data-original-width="756" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL8GbcIS-c3YDBWZrN5jQFeeqvNrkke937nB6wmP_z_8x_BkcK1XQyQ_GzWYeVPxPVutTvtI-rbY6Fak8GLW3ihWLdSCuZEvANpfQzJRi9j7mlrcqdEVAjlkKlOUenMX28kX4CojoXS-8/s320/IMG_8808.JPG" /></a></div><br />Why are you reading this? Why do you want to become somebody new? <p>Are
you tired of being the person you are? Or perhaps you're tired of
believing in who you are. Sometimes you've taken on a "self" who is all
about trying to keep things in order, stay safe, protect an identity.
She smiles when she's supposed to smile. She wipes the smear of pinky
red lipstick off her coffee cup so as not to leave a mess in the world.</p><p>What if the person you really are is new, every moment, every second?</p><p>What
if that person is bursting with newness, ideas, creativity, honesty,
authenticity, danger and giggles? What if that person, today, will bring
forth magic tricks, a crazy story, a delightful song or a just-birthed
adventure?</p><p>What if?<br /></p><p><br /><br /></p>Christi Krughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10207062849832227699noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7159166572774050478.post-10095065598972386582019-05-07T14:06:00.000-07:002019-05-07T14:24:14.697-07:00This Thing Called Happiness (Hint: It's not Social Media)Ask any parent what she wants most for her child, and she'll say, "Happiness."<br />
<br />
But happiness is confusing.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr23CKRaPT8hXSzK5gaiGxyMnxz5A5lypYgb6ioVfCMqw0853P4Wf4rA8DacooNtMkgvYB2JlX7bLAhx_9rjCIhy3iwNedHkG-SC3haV2Y-PAbp1Uxe4nPJHwcLnrQ319J4JeE9u7d5m8/s1600/upside-down-happy.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjr23CKRaPT8hXSzK5gaiGxyMnxz5A5lypYgb6ioVfCMqw0853P4Wf4rA8DacooNtMkgvYB2JlX7bLAhx_9rjCIhy3iwNedHkG-SC3haV2Y-PAbp1Uxe4nPJHwcLnrQ319J4JeE9u7d5m8/s1600/upside-down-happy.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
Am I happy? I look at my circumstances . . . and see problems. <br />
<br />
I scan my feelings . . . and they're not all "happy."<br />
<br />
I
remember the most honest prayer I ever heard from a pulpit. The
minister paused as we bowed our heads. "Lord," she sighed. "We try <i>so hard</i> to be happy. It doesn't get us anywhere." <br />
<br />
We don't know how to get this thing called happiness. <br />
<br />
Should we keep looking? <br />
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
"There are good reasons that the whole notion of 'seeking happiness' is flawed to begin with." --Oliver Burkeman in <i>The Antidote: Happiness for People Who Can't Stand Positive Thinking</i></blockquote>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAGR51rEpNVSP804iJMsrOytx8lzES2x0T0QvrMTY32UELCttrTu3g3d7hgUGkypD1y4qgrl6MPotnFNRWxZKI8qzfXEqHPPdGgyPFlBbhwAXbbQDLfk6dGTE8dULI9slH1gOoGx9kAzU/s1600/2-happy-faces.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAGR51rEpNVSP804iJMsrOytx8lzES2x0T0QvrMTY32UELCttrTu3g3d7hgUGkypD1y4qgrl6MPotnFNRWxZKI8qzfXEqHPPdGgyPFlBbhwAXbbQDLfk6dGTE8dULI9slH1gOoGx9kAzU/s1600/2-happy-faces.jpg" width="285" /></a></div>
<br />
When I'm searching hard for happiness, I can hook into things that make me unhappy - without even realizing it.<br />
<br />
Social
media, for instance. In the past month, I've cut down ninety percent on my
social media use. I thought I loved networking and was having fun.<br />
<br />
In
truth, it was becoming addicted.<br />
<br />
In April, I served as a creative resident at the <a href="https://ncascades.org/discover/learning-center">North Cascades Environmental Learning Center</a>. I was overwhelmed with gratitude for this chance to dive deeply into my writing and bathe in nature's lush, green restorative harmonies. I lingered for hours in the beautiful library. I noshed on the most delicious organic food on the planet. I deleted Instagram and Facebook from my phone.<br />
<br />
One thing I discovered was that:<br />
<br />
1) I had been posting photos as a distraction to avoid
unhappy feelings throughout any given day.<br />
2) The social media platform was eating up my time.<br />
3) Networking was turning my mind into a freeway with countless exits and merging lanes, when what I needed was a slow country road where I could have sustained, quiet focus.<br />
<br />
The thing is, I hadn't really noticed.<br />
<br />
It sounds simple, so ridiculously simple, to ask the question, "What
makes me happy?" And yet we don't know. <br />
<br />
To start with, when things go our way
we should be happy, right? Yet we all know miserable millionaires,
gorgeous people who feel ugly, successful folks who are lonely and lost.
People we think should be happy aren't.<br />
<br />
When we find our day in the sun, we fear the shadow. <br />
<br />
And
there's the flip side. When things are going badly, sometimes the
happiest feelings arise. My sweetest memories happened in two
tiny rooms where I lived with my little girls after becoming single. We were broke, and heartbroken. Yet there was happiness, and
much
singing. <br />
<br />
I can be happy and unhappy at the same time. I can be
frustrated, yet content, discouraged and yet brave, frightened and yet
at peace.<br />
<br />
There is happy, and there is <i>other-happy.</i><br />
<br />
It's a deeper sense of well-being. It's when the search becomes a spiritual quest. <br />
<br />
That quest starts with honesty. <br />
<br />
What
if we were totally honest with ourselves about unhappiness? When I
get quiet and pay attention, I notice my hopelessness, even in good
circumstances. I discover how clueless I am about creating happiness. <br />
<br />
I give up my designs.<br />
<br />
I connect to the <i>other-happy</i> Presence. <br />
<br />
I sense a happiness that is independent of . . . well, <i>happiness</i>!<br />
<br />
Again, if this sounds confusing, it is!<br />
<br />
This
is something you can do with a pen in hand. When you catch yourself
trying to be happy, take a mental step back. Notice what works
and what doesn't. <br />
<br />
A place to start is with the question:<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<br />
<i>What makes me happy?</i></blockquote>
<br />
<br />Christi Krughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10207062849832227699noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7159166572774050478.post-12814807842837236602017-04-19T18:45:00.001-07:002017-04-19T18:50:11.709-07:00Lost in Fantasy: Wild and Reckless <!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimq6cjqhGzulBS3cE2Cl2UGAfrdLC1eSKX430LhthQLjZY_Rk8syPfjuBHTJ9AJt_TipsnNcZa6RLw-3BX1MCD21ehYYoVNYpGtIjhaV8ugFz6NlLQtNkMW-kWZmyMt9hCYWmC5IgjeEM/s1600/29804215676_09b8ebb87e_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="251" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimq6cjqhGzulBS3cE2Cl2UGAfrdLC1eSKX430LhthQLjZY_Rk8syPfjuBHTJ9AJt_TipsnNcZa6RLw-3BX1MCD21ehYYoVNYpGtIjhaV8ugFz6NlLQtNkMW-kWZmyMt9hCYWmC5IgjeEM/s640/29804215676_09b8ebb87e_z.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">There are times when we confuse our real world with fantasy.
When this happens in a story, it’s utterly absorbing and rich.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">The show, “Wild and Reckless” is comprised of Blitzen
Trapper’s performance of ten songs, three from past albums, as the band tells a
story written for <a href="http://www.pcs.org/">Portland Center Stage.</a> The result is a wonderful amalgamation of a rock
concert, a musical, a fantastic alternative-universe Portland, and a tale of
addiction and heartbreak. It is indeed, an absorbing and rich show, and a haunting
musical performance.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">It’s darkly thrilling in a visual and sensory way, riddled
with a network of zapping lights, and infused with the roots rock music of
Blitzen Trapper. There is a delightful comic-book aura that at times had me cackling
with laughter—in sync with the cackling scientist of the show, wonderfully warped
and nerdy, played by percussionist Brian Adrian Koch. But soon this delight
gives way to deep pain, as we watch the narrator (guitarist Eric Early) grapple
with fear and desperation in telling his story. It is the story of a young man
entering the city seeking to establish his music career. But what he finds is the
love of his life: a woman who becomes hooked on a deadly substance.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">We learn about lightning dust, and lightning junkies, and get
a lesson from the professor (Marty Marquis, keyboard player) on certain of
these lightning dust addicts, who take the pain of others within themselves. “They
are as rare as unicorns.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">And I’m thinking about all the ways we intermix our pain
with fantasy, and confuse saving others with saving ourselves.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">“I knew I had to do something to save her,” the narrator
explains, when he sees his love growing sick and weak. He admires her for the
way she, herself, puts herself out for others who are down and out. “For her it
was so easy to give everything away.” (Laura Carbonell, as the Girl, has a wistful sultriness that
adds lovely female energy to the show.)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Yet neither our hero nor his girlfriend can make the distinction
between self and others. She spends her time feeding her habit or stealing
things to bring comfort to the downtrodden. He tosses his career aside
and puts his integrity and entire world at risk to follow her as she falls
deeper and deeper into addiction.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Street and club names are wonderfully recognizable as
Portland, but in this fantasy world, elements don’t work normally. It’s not
what you think. And it never will be.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">In the same way, I reflect on the times I have tried to lose
myself in another person, in this one’s problems, in that one’s life, in
whether or not this one loves me. It’s all unreal.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">That unreality sends us into the dark, sticky, web of playing
the role of the rescuer, the lover, the obsessed. It’s easier to escape
personal pain than face it solo. We escape through distractions, yes, and
through drugs of all kinds—but also through “helping.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Before long, we’re lost. “[Y]ou can’t go home,” the narrator
concludes. “Is home a place? Is home a person?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Those unanswered questions point to one place, one person, that
deepest sense of home, one alternative universe it is so difficult to know and
love: one’s very self. </span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2n5aOCuDuZRto8-_TTl8BgdEfYq8oCnwb5tCbRI-mUmuScEHpJarjICv3tx7bTjBw0R9z947VU_EIEZSkMB-IWExrmxCZGOXbpNx_P6-h8WBuIC5iBOCFeMruBSVtJBVm03UX-3QCits/s1600/33199769221_b41251b0e9_z.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="220" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2n5aOCuDuZRto8-_TTl8BgdEfYq8oCnwb5tCbRI-mUmuScEHpJarjICv3tx7bTjBw0R9z947VU_EIEZSkMB-IWExrmxCZGOXbpNx_P6-h8WBuIC5iBOCFeMruBSVtJBVm03UX-3QCits/s400/33199769221_b41251b0e9_z.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: small;">Photo credits: Kate Szrom</span></span></div>
Christi Krughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10207062849832227699noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7159166572774050478.post-25336900312964171872017-03-06T16:07:00.001-08:002017-03-07T09:31:17.879-08:00Through the Loneliness: His Eye is on the Sparrow<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYPYqDOO1CtJNweb02B02fe43KlCxANxjaCVKchky3oRnLeLwEgJFc6h_q7EFevB0ir4exHmO1E9BtttwTuqw4PtCFNjzD5GEihDutkvnm4L7cNcQd2LLd_UkxoA41J5w4ss7cDvPgjIE/s1600/32380479720_772a5043ff_z.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYPYqDOO1CtJNweb02B02fe43KlCxANxjaCVKchky3oRnLeLwEgJFc6h_q7EFevB0ir4exHmO1E9BtttwTuqw4PtCFNjzD5GEihDutkvnm4L7cNcQd2LLd_UkxoA41J5w4ss7cDvPgjIE/s320/32380479720_772a5043ff_z.jpg" width="245" /></a></div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Sad,
soulful eyes. That’s what I notice when Maiesha McQueen takes the stage
in <i>His Eye is on the Sparrow</i> at <a href="http://pcs.org/">Portland Center Stage</a>. It’s mesmerizing, the way she embodies this character in every
dimension, the way her eyes rove over the audience<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> with</span> depth and
knowing – and it’s easy to be swept into the story of Ethel Waters’s
life, so beautifully expressed in word and song. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">I
have always been fascinating by tragic childhoods. As soon as I was old
enough to know that my own home was not “normal,” I watched anyone
closely who found happiness after early tragedy.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Ethel
Waters’s 1896 birth was the outcome of a child’s rape. Her grandmother
tried to provide for the destitute household in Whore’s Alley.<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"> </span>“And me always hungry,” says Ethel.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The hunger, and the emotional hunger, were devastating. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">“Ethel
I born you,” her mother responds when Ethel seeks a sliver of caring.
“Ain’t that enough?” Her grandmother can barely stand on her feet at the
end of each hardscrabble workday, and has no affection or support to
express. I love the way McQueen makes us feel these characters, even
though they never appear onstage.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Neglect,
to a child, leaves a deep aching loneliness. It is a feeling that can
haunt you the rest of your life, even when you’re surrounded by love. It
surfaces at the strangest times: walking city streets in the sunshine,
rounding an aisle in an antique store, holding out hands to receive a
dozen roses. It refuses to be pushed away.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">And so I understand when Ethel is brought to a Catholic school and left with the nuns, and her heart cries, “Alone.”</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">When Ethel gets into trouble, one of the nuns makes an astonishing invitation: “Eat lunch with me.”</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Whenever
one being offers presence to another, the chance for something
miraculous happens. We learn that, despite what that old nagging feeling
tells us, we are not alone. A door opens, and we become aware of other
presence, Divine presence, an uncanny expression of our own being.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">This presence unfolds us creatively, helps us discover all that which lies in the moment, including creativity, art, and music.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Every time Ethel sings, it is clear she has something incredible and rare.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">And
yet that loneliness resurfaces, time and again. By the time Ethel
leaves the nuns, she has grown to love her school. “Only now me all
alone,” she says.</span></span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGLaVErN0uqd1k_TYkWN_7lsuWSpfiLcWz-Py7AkW7CPILB2qFpfKlHt1o4vJBMVND4qOOVC6Kt4nQZgbT9F3_xVxIJQo6zg0YsLQHeookx_e1Sy8sRbS14mt2kmOicZ_7YWg8JNCdc4U/s1600/31917585004_eb0fa83d9c_z.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGLaVErN0uqd1k_TYkWN_7lsuWSpfiLcWz-Py7AkW7CPILB2qFpfKlHt1o4vJBMVND4qOOVC6Kt4nQZgbT9F3_xVxIJQo6zg0YsLQHeookx_e1Sy8sRbS14mt2kmOicZ_7YWg8JNCdc4U/s400/31917585004_eb0fa83d9c_z.jpg" width="286" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">The
insidious thing about loneliness is that it can cause you to hold tight
to the wrong people, for the wrong reasons. “Someone wants to marry
you,” Ethel’s mother says, when a man shows interest. “Now you ain’t
gotta be a whore.</span></span><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">”</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">All
of this is made a thousand times harder and more complicated
because of racial mistreatment. When <span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Ethel</span> gets in a horrible accident,
she is sent to the state poorhouse because “there are no hospitals for
coloreds.”</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Once</span> again, a kind soul appears, someone giving the gift of attention.
“Keep that light inside you honey, and find the way out of here,” the
helper says.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Ethel’s
persistence, her singing, her talent, her sense of humor, and her
ability to seize every chance – they vault her from injury, injustice, pain, and poverty.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">Yet loneliness </span></span>dogs her steps.
“Do I even know how to love?” she asks, well into adulthood and struggling in her marriage.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Oh man, if that <span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;">question isn't familiar to me! </span></span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">And then she sings, and learns, and relearns to sing:</span></span><br />
<br />
<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Why should I feel discouraged, why should the shadows come, </span></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Why should my heart be lonely, and long for heav’n and home,
When Jesus is my portion? My constant Friend is He:</span></span></i><br />
<i><span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">His eye is on the sparrow, and I know He watches me.</span></span></i><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">She
is singing herself back to the awareness of that Presence, back to the
open door of love, despite all the locks and fears and bars that
convince the mind of its utter aloneness. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">Seeing, with those sad and soulful eyes, that she is always seen. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-family: "times" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="font-size: large;">It is the work of every lonely human. </span></span><br />
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Christi Krughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10207062849832227699noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7159166572774050478.post-88797082085259108062016-01-11T21:50:00.002-08:002016-01-16T13:34:58.179-08:00Wild Geese & Abandon: What We Need is Here<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<span style="color: #bf9000;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span class="poem"><span style="color: #f6b26b;">Horseback on Sunday morning,<br />
harvest over, we taste persimmon<br />
and wild grape, sharp sweet<br />
of summer's end. In time's maze <br />
over fall fields, we name names<br />
that went west from here, names<br />
that rest on graves. </span>We open<br />
a persimmon seed to find the tree<br />
that stands in promise,<br />
pale, in the seed's marrow.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="color: #e69138;"><span style="font-size: large;">Geese appear high over us,</span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #b45f06;"><span style="color: #e69138;">pass, and the sky closes.</span> Abandon,</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #783f04;"><span style="font-size: large;">as in love or sleep, holds</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #783f04;"><span style="font-size: large;">them to their way,</span><b><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></b><span style="font-size: large;">clear</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #7f6000;"><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="color: #783f04;">in the ancient faith: </span>what we need</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #7f6000;"><span style="font-size: large;">is here. And we pray, not</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #7f6000;"><span style="font-size: large;">for new earth or heaven, but to be</span></span><br />
<span style="color: #7f6000;"><span style="font-size: large;">quiet in heart, and in eye, </span></span><br />
<span style="color: #7f6000;"><span style="font-size: large;">clear. What we need is here.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: #783f04;"><span style="font-size: large;">--Wendell Berry, </span><span class="poem"><span style="font-size: large;">from <i>Collected Poems 1957-1982</i> (North Point
Press) </span></span></span><br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dx10agpJtz2XNA-L3Huj7FDLdFqM_nPuKBboYSff2hRrovPuLDnr5jDVoj8XuqsKf0Jt4yS5nzLGJ7A6G5O3A' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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<span style="font-size: small;"></span>
<br />
<a name='more'></a><span style="font-size: large;">Sometimes, the only way to get through a thing is to be <a href="http://www.powells.com/book/saved-by-a-poem-9781401921460/17-1" target="_blank">saved by a poem. </a></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">This is the poem that saved me last year. Along with it, the word "abandon" kept showing up. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKw8_wDx-8Ya_h6Ez0yVQZTaqB67dUyTss48ZwQTsilvGDzCALdhqpNHHAq6FE9j3vP0lB03Q07z0LVRYhpyOSzfCohdf5u38Bs-rfJMPyXNUMU8eIKA4iamGnl3q45XlcyytxeF-5Zqo/s1600/abandon.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKw8_wDx-8Ya_h6Ez0yVQZTaqB67dUyTss48ZwQTsilvGDzCALdhqpNHHAq6FE9j3vP0lB03Q07z0LVRYhpyOSzfCohdf5u38Bs-rfJMPyXNUMU8eIKA4iamGnl3q45XlcyytxeF-5Zqo/s400/abandon.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">For some time now, my
husband and I have been struggling to redefine ourselves. As empty
nesters, we've been assessing all the ways we have changed. We've questioned and doubted our togetherness.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">We have engaged in heated discussions, tearful walks, awkward
airport goodbyes, and passionate welcome-home embraces. We've played
out each scene with as much respect and integrity as we could, getting
support from our couples' therapist, or venturing on road trips, or
taking purposeful time apart.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I didn't want to be the abandoned one, so I thought about doing the abandoning.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">There
is something in me that cowers in fear of the unknown in relationships.
I want my love secure, locked down, bolted. I want to count on the
other person to stay the same.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">But life doesn't offer this kind of security. We as humans are constantly changing.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Yesterday
we spent a day skiing on Mt. Hood, an activity that brought us together
16 years ago. I noticed all the things that are different now. We don't
stop for donuts; I'm gluten-free. He got rid of the old boots that used
to creak with every stride. These days I ski ahead of him, but in the
past, I was always behind.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">With all this change, where is security? Where is peace, or unconditional love?</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">It is not found in the changing scenery, but in my lookout point, as I acknowledge Presence with me, with us. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Wendell Berry wrote about the parallels of <a href="https://www.brainpickings.org/2014/11/18/wendell-berry-poetry-marriage/" target="_blank">poetry and marriage</a>,
that when a couple commits to each other, "we speak into no future that
we know, much less into one that we desire, but into one that is
unknown." </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">That unknowing is uncomfortable, but it is part of the beautiful wild design of the whole thing.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">We are committed to this changeable, unpredictable form, which requires our tending and our courage. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">And so I took another look at what I needed to abandon. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="http://afirebynight.blogspot.com/2014/03/spring-cleaning-who-i-used-to-be.html">I abandoned the past.</a> No matter how I cling, it refuses to stay. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">We can attempt to recreate the Thing We Always Had, but it isn't possible. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Another thing I abandoned was trying to control my feelings. </span><span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">I wanted to call up the old feelings, and I felt shame about the new ones. Yet feelings </span>will not be ignored, pretended away, or bullied into other forms.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I abandoned trying to please another human instead of telling the truth. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-size: large;">I abandoned my preconceived ideas of <a href="http://afirebynight.blogspot.com/2014/06/his-third-wife-lessons-about-marriage.html">who I am</a>.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">I abandoned stubbornness. And I abandoned <a href="http://afirebynight.blogspot.com/2015/06/the-anchor-and-feather-inner-secrets-of.html">fantasy. </a></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Sometimes the hardest thing is letting go my idea of what I need - and simply experiencing <i>what is. </i></span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Exchanging
a kiss after an uncomfortable discussion. Snuggling into arms that
reach for me in the dark. Finding a note on the counter that makes me
smile.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i><br /></i></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I experience God in the midst of is-ness. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Really,
it's what any relationship is all about: being present for self, and
for the other. Experiencing the Greater Presence that accepts and loves
and is. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><i>What we need is here.</i></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><i> </i></span><br />
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Christi Krughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10207062849832227699noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7159166572774050478.post-61841485617914470262015-12-22T11:57:00.001-08:002015-12-22T13:35:46.548-08:00Zero Barrier: A Found Poem <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnkoGwwhR2q367Am39u2n2jsxHTaVT4hdIVJh6zdz6iVJ5mm76MowlMbMryXfDbS-tIfUpnOUvGxr8lM6cKKPkQplSEXQ1cbclND42JyIR7KgBhukGXeSIcW2GNZptWFHXksC0u7Z5zcY/s1600/fancy-tea-bag-poem.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="390" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnkoGwwhR2q367Am39u2n2jsxHTaVT4hdIVJh6zdz6iVJ5mm76MowlMbMryXfDbS-tIfUpnOUvGxr8lM6cKKPkQplSEXQ1cbclND42JyIR7KgBhukGXeSIcW2GNZptWFHXksC0u7Z5zcY/s400/fancy-tea-bag-poem.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Zero Barrier</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">(A poem of word scraps collected in a tea bag envelope <a href="http://www.christikrug.net/2015/12/forbidden-words-or-how-i-kept-from.html">over an 11-day silence.</a>)</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Break out of established years:</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">be peace brewing.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">Squeeze</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">stash</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">send</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">created magic</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">fizzy life brew.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">First carry water.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Pick desired experience,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">pull petals,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">color yellow,</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">sprinkle triple green goodness,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">serving, gentle cycle,</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">wholesome balm</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">dissolved.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Emerge root strength - </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">grand, free, leaf home.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Feeling verified.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Made perfect, complete.</span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;">Spirit herbalists in the world. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7P969o-l2KSMX2pJJEdW2a_31fe5-PnljEuxjq9F7azYG1iK59U6OItsM1Q9I18cou91bhSA2cDUzjXSeWw6Olr7VXFQfMJ6rJGgKWFL7IfYZLuXHUE0lspU030iAdTVRaEzCNd5vODI/s1600/12354104_980063238726806_804194502_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj7P969o-l2KSMX2pJJEdW2a_31fe5-PnljEuxjq9F7azYG1iK59U6OItsM1Q9I18cou91bhSA2cDUzjXSeWw6Olr7VXFQfMJ6rJGgKWFL7IfYZLuXHUE0lspU030iAdTVRaEzCNd5vODI/s640/12354104_980063238726806_804194502_n.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Christi Krughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10207062849832227699noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7159166572774050478.post-21760756049897534962015-06-15T06:18:00.002-07:002015-06-17T16:58:15.330-07:00The Anchor and the Feather: Inner Secrets of Attraction<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihCuqJHCBmvt-9WghkSxkRbA0obGEFsN-H4Zsl9KxaZFU0LDVh72vqzsa_FeWlCQzK17sBY-WkNSEEqoZECtZlUf6km1ZmlyZLG8bR3RNYhCtnSfS8pi_qfvxlYiVz_SVxHArKZMhyphenhyphendaM/s1600/2-anchor-and-feather.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihCuqJHCBmvt-9WghkSxkRbA0obGEFsN-H4Zsl9KxaZFU0LDVh72vqzsa_FeWlCQzK17sBY-WkNSEEqoZECtZlUf6km1ZmlyZLG8bR3RNYhCtnSfS8pi_qfvxlYiVz_SVxHArKZMhyphenhyphendaM/s400/2-anchor-and-feather.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
I've had it in mind to write this post for months.
But then I talked myself out of it.<br />
<br />
These truths are difficult, personal, and still in formation.<br />
<br />
And yet, a young woman friend said this meant so much to her, and would I please share it?<br />
<br />
So here's the story.<br />
<br />
It started with attraction.<br />
<br />
My
life was in a state of flux, my first marriage was dissolving, and I
was working for a temp agency, never sure how long each assignment would
last. I was an inconsistent, confused parent of two little girls. I was
scared, but embracing new things.<br />
<br />
I took up hiking, discovering unexplored vistas.<br />
<br />
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<br />
That's where I met Blue Eyes.<br />
<br />
I
was riveted by this single dad and his concrete way of being in the
world. He'd had the same career his entire life, had lived in the same
house for more than a decade, poured milk over Shredded Wheat every
morning at 5:25 a.m., drove the same way to work every day in his aqua
blue Honda Accord. Everything about him was solid.<br />
<br />
I fell hard.<br />
<br />
Two
and a half years later, we were married. This man who was so dependable
and committed brought me the stability and schedule I craved. His
strengths reinforced all that we did as a family, and helped our kids to
become beautiful young adults.
He was my anchor.<br />
<br />
Thirteen years later, Blue Eyes and I started going through a Marriage Shift.<br />
<br />
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<br />
Our nest was newly empty. I felt <a href="https://www.pinterest.com/christikrug/getting-lost/">lost.</a><br />
<br />
Indeed, there's nothing like a partnership to test personal growth.
Our culture gives us the idea that relationships should be an endless round of getting your needs met by an intimate partner.
It isn't so.
Relationships are reflections.
A relationship reflects the inner you.<br />
<br />
Ever notice that
the same issues come up, over and over, with different people in your
life? Even if you have the same lifelong romantic partner, your
relationships with kids, friends, neighbors--they all reflect what is
going on within you, they all point to where you need to grow.<br />
<br />
And we are attracted to what we need to cultivate and create within.<br />
<br />
And so, in this place of confusion, something happened to me.<br />
<br />
It was an attraction.<br />
<br />
I was on a committee with a guy friend. He started occupying my mind. It was a magnetic pull. I couldn't shake it.
I tried to reason it away, pray it away, ignore it, squelch it, even entertain it. Nothing brought peace.<br />
<br />
This
guy was playful, changeable, creative, always trying new things. Not
the kind of man I considered relationship material. Not one to be tied
down. A minimalist. Free. Flighty.<br />
<br />
A feather.<br />
<br />
I felt guilty, disoriented, and devastated. As I struggled with my feelings, I started finding feathers--<br />
<br />
along trails<br />
in parking lots<br />
on beaches <br />
in forests<br />
on streets<br />
afloat in puddles
<br />
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<br />
It came to me, my own heart needed to recognize the feather qualities.
My attraction wasn't about the other person. It was about needing my <i>self. </i><br />
<br />
That
woman who had navigated change, all those years ago. The one who faced
dangers, took risks, explored. What had happened to her?
I was yearning for lightness. Play. New horizons. Flight.<br />
<br />
I'd pushed these qualities away, and now my heart was crying out, trying to get my attention.
I needed to unfold wings, to change. To trust.<br />
<br />
And so, rather than pursuing another human being, I fumblingly started pursuing my own nature.
It propelled me on the <a href="http://afirebynight.blogspot.com/2014/09/the-first-lesson-of-camino-what-will.html" target="_blank">Camino de Santiago</a>.<br />
<br />
I spread my wings for a solo journey to Spain, and though I felt nervous and clueless, I did it: I flew.<br />
<br />
When I came home, I felt renewed appreciation and love for the husband waiting for me, my anchor.<br />
<br />
Then again, the anchor's strength and stability are a reflection of me, too.
I need both sides, I've come to understand.<br />
<br />
And I need to recognize where they play out within my soul.
The anchor and the feather both call, and can't be ignored.<br />
<br />
I
need to honor my heart and home commitments. I need to be there for my
family. I need to give myself space, time, territory, and still, deep
waters.<br />
<br />
I need to live on the creative edge. I need to
push myself to unknown heights. I need to soar above whatever holds me
back. I need to fly to new things, risking failure and mistakes.<br />
<br />
The
greatest adventure in life is to love. That love is first kindled
within our own hearts. It won't always feel comfortable, or appear to be
giving us what we want - but ultimately, it fulfills every longing.<br />
<br />
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</div>
Christi Krughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10207062849832227699noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7159166572774050478.post-23905940368315777642015-06-08T13:51:00.005-07:002015-06-08T13:55:50.062-07:00The Weather of the Heart<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYK6gcbrKTKFFPEAnkxDL5SNQUVGZTZ4z_6ltRx00kUEBjzPJ8SLPiQJsszRyBN_KPLlS5pwMl5tM_PFOAM23Bul5by5P4yN8EdmggV3o7_BlLA9KqzSf-yh9oVi7MiBhy-NnrCkN_1Ko/s1600/emotional%252C-bricks.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYK6gcbrKTKFFPEAnkxDL5SNQUVGZTZ4z_6ltRx00kUEBjzPJ8SLPiQJsszRyBN_KPLlS5pwMl5tM_PFOAM23Bul5by5P4yN8EdmggV3o7_BlLA9KqzSf-yh9oVi7MiBhy-NnrCkN_1Ko/s320/emotional%252C-bricks.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
Emotions. Sigh.<br />
<br />
I envy those people who power through their emotional states without seeming to slow down or be affected. <br />
<br />
That's not how it is with me.<br />
<br />
Yet
I know that my capacity for deep feeling ties into my creativity and
empathy. Shutting down the emotions of body and soul only diminishes my
human experience. <br />
<br />
And so I learn to weather the weather of the heart.<br />
<br />
What this means is:<br />
<br />
I
have to be aware of the signs of shutdown. It starts with a tightness
in my chest, a clenching below my throat. I must stay
close to this sensation. I need to keep my heart soft.<br />
<br />
I spend much time processing my thoughts <i>and </i>feelings,
paying close attention to their connection. This is where a journal is
an incredible tool, providing an outlet to write down whatever it is
noticed, felt, feared, denied. <br />
<br />
Sometimes it can take a
while before I uncover what I'm feeling beneath every other feeling.
Again, shutting down often seems the easier choice.<br />
<br />
I used to prefer the shutdown. I became very good at it, actually.<br />
<br />
Inevitably,
though, all the repressed feelings would erupt and I'd find myself
battling addictions, ignoring my true desires, and hurting others. <br />
<br />
Shutting
off my feelings is simply closing doors and windows to the weather,
living in a brick house untouched by the world. This isn't the living
you and I were meant for.<br />
<br />
As a 48-year-old woman, I'm
told that emotional turbulence can have chemical roots related to
perimenopause. That rings true. And yet so many of my mentor women
didn't experience this turbulence, or didn't talk about it.<br />
<br />
So I'm talking about feelings.<br />
<br />
Once
I stop being afraid of them, emotions can be as beautiful as a sneak
blizzard or a summer storm. They want my attention, and when I give it,
I'm able to live fully in all the elements as they change and bluster.<br />
<br />
And I'm ready when the sun comes out. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />Christi Krughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10207062849832227699noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7159166572774050478.post-756903471698499242014-12-12T10:29:00.003-08:002014-12-12T10:29:30.793-08:00We Interrupt This Broadcast . . . with Now<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZaIrFOaHWO81X_6AuGwtc-AqN0UMcYOq2qB0J2_PsPzu-rPkdbCQPET9KePjf5XX5m7RXXn5mxI3g9IeAhLGiZ8RhWDCGZGCumzGLrEvacZYXSXaGi2sOTI74WLFd_AwKgZIqcxJoRfo/s1600/IMG_3803.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZaIrFOaHWO81X_6AuGwtc-AqN0UMcYOq2qB0J2_PsPzu-rPkdbCQPET9KePjf5XX5m7RXXn5mxI3g9IeAhLGiZ8RhWDCGZGCumzGLrEvacZYXSXaGi2sOTI74WLFd_AwKgZIqcxJoRfo/s1600/IMG_3803.JPG" height="480" width="640" /></a></div>
<br />
So
I'm humming along with my futuristic visions of creations and
collaborations, possibilities and projects, and how I'm gonna change
things in my life, and how I wish some things would change sooner rather
than later, and what everything is going to look like when . . . WHAM!<br />
<br />
WE INTERRUPT THIS BROADCAST . . .<br />
<br />
Huh?<br />
<br />
THIS BROADCAST OF THE FUTURE HAS BEEN INTERCEPTED WITH NOW.<br />
<br />
What's that?<br />
<br />
THIS BROADCAST. IT ISN'T REAL. ALL THAT EXISTS IS WHAT YOU SEE, WHAT YOU EXPERIENCE, AND WHO YOU ARE, RIGHT NOW. <br />
<br />
Well, yeah, but . . . <br />
<br />
ALL THAT YOU'LL EVER HAVE, OR EVER BE, IS RIGHT NOW.<br />
<br />
Oh.<br />
<br />
(Clearing
throat). Well then. That means my wheel-spinning of plans and schemes
and doings and hopes is all in vain. That means what I call my
"envisioning" is filling my head with wishing nonsense. That means I'm
forever thinking the future will be better while ignoring the beauty and
beautiful people right next to me. <br />
<br />
YES.<br />
<br />
And maybe my imagination would be better served loving my life the way
it is, experiencing who is with me in this moment and where I am,
exactly the way I am, here.<br />
<br />
BINGO.<br />
<br />
Uh, okay. Got it, I think. For now, anyway . . . Christi Krughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10207062849832227699noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7159166572774050478.post-45686478831290915972014-11-05T13:08:00.000-08:002014-11-05T13:23:27.859-08:00Camino Lessons: You Will Be Directed<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK699xB6FmN-r6m821QSbb7JiAA1S8XgjYDBIo0dT2fLgCt8vyZHLxmPBK2U4McdwiIe6Dzo1xEcEP8IV6-YOsggYIDLyDi4uaTglhOerx8PTjlENZgFIZUGRh27Rk11ZMhNLcmD38jQI/s1600/IMG_0213.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjK699xB6FmN-r6m821QSbb7JiAA1S8XgjYDBIo0dT2fLgCt8vyZHLxmPBK2U4McdwiIe6Dzo1xEcEP8IV6-YOsggYIDLyDi4uaTglhOerx8PTjlENZgFIZUGRh27Rk11ZMhNLcmD38jQI/s1600/IMG_0213.JPG" height="400" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
When we are in a <a href="http://afirebynight.blogspot.com/2014/08/el-camino-de-santiago-finding-path-and.html" target="_blank">lost</a> place, it can take a long time to find our bearings. We may start blaming ourselves for not knowing where we are. <br />
<br />
And then we blame God. She must not want us to know anything. He must be hiding the signs. Maybe there aren't any signs at all.<br />
<br />
Last
year, I felt lost in my marriage. Our sense of direction as a couple
was playing Hide and Seek with us. And when so many things were changing
in my life, I began to think I would never know my direction again.<br />
<br />
The Camino reminded me, in a gentle way, that Divine direction will return. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
Intermittently
along the Camino, waymarkers show the path. Sometimes they are feet
apart. Sometimes they're distanced by miles. And sometimes the markers
are there, but the pilgrim can't see them - because she has looked away,
or is hiking in the dark, or the rain has worn down the image. <br />
<br />
The
sign of the Camino is the scallop shell. Shells are embedded in
pavement, raised on highway signs, carved into stone pillars, or painted
on rocks. <br />
<br />
Also, there's the yellow arrow. Arrows show up on fences, buildings, boulders. Or in other creative formations . . . .<br />
<br />
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<br />
"Did
you see the arrow?" my hiking partner and I would ask each other a
dozen times a day. This became shortened to a point and a gesture, or
we'd simply say, "Arrow," and move on.<br />
<br />
When you're
road-weary from a day on the trail, and haven't seen a marker for the
last hour, the absence of a sign fills you with despair.<br />
<br />
The day's trek seems a waste. Everything hurts that can hurt. The stomach yowls with hunger.<br />
<br />
And you feel forgotten. Overlooked. Incidental.<br />
<br />
And then . . . there it is. The sign that says, "Yes. You're right where you belong."<br />
Your heart does a happy handspring.<br />
<br />
Indeed, the road winds through strange places. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
It
twists behind a tumbledown shed, zigs around an alley, darts through a
village overrun with chickens, plummets down a rocky traverse. But it is
all okay, because you know you're on the right path.<br />
<br />
Sometimes you have to wait for direction.<br />
<br />
The waiting can be hard.<br />
<br />
This doesn't mean you'll never know your place again.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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When the assurance comes, it is sweet.<br />
<br />
For
me, sometimes I felt like crying, or singing. I wasn't just learning
about yellow arrows and scallop shells, but what it is to trust.<br />
<br />
In my life, in my marriage - it all began to unfold with possibility. With connection. With renewal. I saw the path forward. <br />
<br />
Since
I've been home, that instinct to look for the signs has stayed with me.
Once I saw a scallop shell in a wall mirror. I blinked, looked again,
and recognized a pleated lampshade.<br />
<br />
Another day I was feeling crunched at work and drove up the highway. Stopped and walked in a small town neighborhood. My heart recognized the shell before I knew what I was looking at.<br />
<br />
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<br />
Again, I was in the right place . . . <br />
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<br />
The signs are everywhere.<br />
<br />
Because we're meant to know.<br />
<br />Christi Krughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10207062849832227699noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7159166572774050478.post-81781719514244546382014-10-03T08:34:00.002-07:002014-10-03T08:37:51.196-07:00Camino Lessons: You are Never Alone <br />
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<br /></div>
May, 2014. When Heather brainstormed with me about walking the
Camino de Santiago in late summer, I told her our plans had to be tentative. "I learned that even
though you make a plan with a friend, you are ultimately alone. The Camino has its own plan."<br />
<br />
Sure
enough, as the weeks played out we looked at different things. Heather
made hotel reservations and arranged to see sights. I wanted the
traditional Camino - the long-distance walks and low-cost shelters
filled with
snoring pilgrims. (Yes, crazy, but that experience was calling me.) We
decided to meet in Sarria in mid-September if it worked out. <br />
<br />
It
was a year of empty-nest examination and cyclones of the heart.
Looking at my life, I began to wonder how much aloneness I might have to
endure. The confusing feelings about my marriage were a reminder that
nothing in life is guaranteed. I
was ready to hike the road ahead without expectations.<br />
<br />
I was afraid. Yet learning to trust. I trusted my Divine Companion, just as I trusted the Camino ("the Way"). I would get the
lessons I needed - and accept the solitude.<br />
<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
And
so, on September 2, I reached the convent albergue in Leon, my starting
point. As I stood in line to get a stamp for my Pilgrim Passport, a
tall, willowy form
stepped up. She spoke English with an American accent, and just a trace
of something else. "Are you on your own?" she asked.<br />
<br />
"Yes! It's my first time doing the Camino alone," I said.<br />
<br />
"I'm alone, too," she said, smiling a beautiful smile. Her eyes danced with a spirit of adventure.<br />
<br />
Home
meant Berlin for her, Portland for me. Elle was 30, while I'd just
turned 48. She was an accomplished professional and world traveler. As
we chatted, we wandered crooked cobblestone squares and winding streets,
getting lost.* A kind local on a bike had to guide us back to the
albergue before the nuns locked the doors. <br />
<br />
"Do you
want to hike out together in the morning?" she asked as she climbed onto
the top bunk and I wedged into the space below. "Sure," I
said, thinking it would be lovely to have someone join me for this one,
first day.<br />
<br />
At the end of our second day, I asked her the same question.<br />
<br />
At the end of our twelfth day, we stood in the streets of Santiago together, footsore and grateful.<br />
<br />
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
Together,
we had covered two hundred miles. We had hiked hour after hour, day
after day. We'd complained about the blisters on our feet, the snorers
in the dormitories, the annoying day-trippers who posed as pilgrims. We
took Communion with a band of Catholics from Australia.<br />
<br />
We
commiserated about aching knees, whined about the brutal afternoon sun,
and took turns gently urging the other person forward. We told the
stories of our confusing love lives. We ate dark chocolate in Astorga
and <i>pulpo</i> in Melide. In Molinaseca, she taught me the proper
European way to eat a whole fish. We counted kilometers, searched for
waymarkers, gasped at the beauty of the Galician morning mist.<br />
<br />
We laughed and gossiped; at Cruz de Ferro we held each other at the foot of the cross while our eyes brimmed with tears.<br />
<br />
I'd been prepared for solitude; I had never expected partnership.<br />
<br />
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<br />
The
walk opened my heart. As I allowed my Divine Companion to walk with me,
this human had come alongside. And besides Elle, I bonded with walkers
from all over the world. I was taken aback at my own ability to welcome
and befriend. <br />
<br />
There were nights of loneliness, even
so. I had no phone or tablet, and couldn't find Heather on the date we had set. I skipped dinner with the pilgrims and sat with my journal. Messages
of support came from home when I felt most homesick. We must feel our
feelings - all of them, and when we do, we broaden our capacity for
love. <br />
<br />
Whether in solitude or partnership, what we
fear is the sense of being alone. Once we accept this ultimate
aloneness, we can allow warmth, trust, togetherness. <br />
<br />
And
even more powerfully, I was flooded with appreciation for the man who
has anchored my life for sixteen years. I missed him so. I felt his
love. A vision emerged, with new ways of relating that will deepen our
relationship and help us grow into an exciting empty-nest future.<br />
<br />
As
for Heather, we did finally connect. We had two lovely meals together
toward the end of the pilgrimage. She had a good friend from her
hometown as her traveling partner and they enjoyed late mornings and
long coffee breaks.<br />
<br />
By then, my pattern was pretty much
set. Every morning I'd tumble out of my bottom bunk, and my sidekick
would tumble out of the top. We'd wrestle our stuff into our backpacks
and hike out at 7, watching the dawn swallow up the morning shadows as
we got ready to push ourselves as far as we could go. <br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
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<br />
"You were sent to me," Elle said. Oh, but she was sent to me, too. What I
learned is to always stay open for partnership, even while accepting solitude.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
____________________________</div>
<br />
*We did <a href="http://afirebynight.blogspot.com/search?q=lost" target="_blank">get lost</a>
a couple of times on the Camino, but backtracking was easy. Leaving a
cafe, we were corrected by an old gentleman in a cap who gruffed, "A
donde vas?" Another time, two bicyclers jabbed their thumbs in the
opposite direction as they sped along. As if they redirected pilgrims
all day long. Which they probably did. (Which brings us to another
lesson of the Camino: <i>You will be directed.) </i>Christi Krughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10207062849832227699noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7159166572774050478.post-63300907897137898532014-09-29T07:46:00.001-07:002014-09-29T09:34:58.056-07:00Camino Lessons: You are Ultimately Alone<br />
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<br />
July, 2004. A friend and I boarded a train in Madrid. I was thrilled to join her for the Camino de Santiago. I admired her deeply, and hoped to become better friends.<br />
<br />
Then we met a Spanish hiker on the train. My friend chatted with this young man, and before I knew it, we were a party of three. We fell into a pattern as the days unfolded. The two of them hiked together, initiating long coffee and ice cream breaks in the heat of the day. I went ahead, trying to keep a brisk pace, turning around now and then to see them walking behind me, heads nodding in deep conversation.<br />
<br />
What about all my conditioning to hike hard and fast? What about my hopes for close friendship? I pushed on, fussing and sweating in the Spanish sun.<br />
<br />
Then, when I hiked too far ahead and lost them, I panicked. I wiped away tears of exhaustion with the dirty sleeve of my hike shirt. A multilingual angel from the Netherlands and a Spanish priest with a cell phone came to my rescue. (This was in the days when cell phones weren't in every pocket.)<br />
<br />
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<br />
At a shelter at Puenta La Reina, I met Heike from Germany. This tanned, beautiful mom in her fifties had trekked all the way from LePuy, France. She sat on her bunk and advised me how to bandage my blisters. When my frustrations came pouring out, she said, <br />
<blockquote>
"What the Camino teaches is that you must go your own pace. You may have come with a friend, but on the Camino, you are ultimately alone."
</blockquote>
The Camino (literally "the Way") teaches what is needed. It may be a lesson in solitude. It may be a lesson in letting go of friendship. It may be slowing down, or speeding up.<br />
<br />
Roughly, I worked on accepting aloneness. It brought up difficult feelings for this girl who grew up in a foster home and feared abandonment.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
I came home treasuring the lesson and yet still confused about it. It would find its way into my life, as all pilgrim lessons do, one moment of solitude at a time.<br />
<br />
Yet <i>the Way </i>is full of paradox. Just because you've learned one truth doesn't mean you don't need the opposite. <br />
<br />
Next lesson of the Camino: <i>You are never alone.</i>Christi Krughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10207062849832227699noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7159166572774050478.post-88373141268283935342014-09-26T11:55:00.002-07:002014-09-26T12:15:52.074-07:00The First Lesson of the Camino: What Will You Carry?Our pain was a result of all that we were carrying.<br />
<br />
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<br />
I remembered this as I packed for my second trek on the Camino de Santiago. <br />
<br />
<i>July,
2004. My hiking partner and I were outfitted with high-tech shirts,
thick socks, and skin care lotions. By the time we reached Trinidad de
Arre, about 40 miles in, her knee froze in place and she could barely
walk. My ankle screamed with each step I took on the cobbled pavement.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>The
priest at the monastery shelter took one look at us, shook his head and
said something like, "Kilos demasiados!" My Spanish was terrible (and
still is), but I got the message when he pointed to our packs and said
it again.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Too much weight.</i><br />
<br />
<i>We
went through our backpacks, tossing toiletries, shirts, socks. Items of
value we marched to the post office and mailed home. We kept only the
bare minimum.</i><br />
<br />
That unforgettable pain seared my mind, so that now, packing for this trip, I thought twice about everything. Or three times.<br />
<br />
I weighed choices - literally, using a postage scale.<br />
<br />
The Camino forces you to simplify.
You must face limitations. You have only so much room in your backpack, and only so much strength.<br />
<br />
You've got to decide what is important to you.
Cute flats for wearing in town, after hiking? Or goofy rubber Crocs that weigh next-to-nothing? Goodbye cute, hello goofy.<br />
<br />
Shampoo and hair conditioner and Woolite and shower gel? Or just one bar of soap? Goodbye pampered skin, hello getting by.<br />
<br />
And so it went.<br />
<br />
When it comes to deciding what to carry, each person has different issues. <br />
<br />
Not surprisingly, I started this year's journey noticing backpacks.<br />
<br />
The biggest backpack belonged to a cheerful, dark-haired pilgrim from Germany. She seemed to be moving quite slow.<br />
<br />
"I just have to ask," I said. "Why are you carrying such an enormous pack?"<br />
<br />
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<br />
"It's
really not that heavy," Marie said. She explained that her original
intent was to camp out so she had packed tent and sleeping pad.<br />
<br />
As
the days went on, I kept seeing her plodding along the trail. At one
point, she had given up her boots and wore sandals which revealed a mass
of bandages swaddling her blistered feet. She always wore a smile.
"I'll get there," she said. "One way or another."<br />
<br />
And then there was
the guy with two backpacks. "Um," I said. "You've got a backpack on
your chest." As if he didn't know. "What's that about?"<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
In his salty New Zealand accent, Paul answered, "I have a hard time letting go."<br />
<br />
I
couldn't help but chuckle. He said it as if it were a genetic trait and
he had no choice in the matter. "You have a hard time letting go," I
repeated.<br />
<br />
"Yes."<br />
<br />
The
smallest backpack also caught my attention. "What's with the tiny
pack?" I asked the young Virginian when I finally caught up to his brisk
pace.<br />
<br />
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<br />
<br />
"It
was a hard lesson for me," he said. "I'm an athlete, so it was tough admitting when my legs and feet started giving out. I took a rest, and now I
have my regular backpack sent by taxi each day. If not for that
decision, I wouldn't be here." Brock had covered 300 miles so far, from
St. Jean Pied de Port.<br />
<br />
My own pack, by the way, wasn't as light as I'd hoped to get it.<br />
<br />
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<br />
I'd
kept some things. The hairbrush, a gift from my daughter. The sleeping
bag vs. sleeping sack. The flowered top, so I could have something that felt "girl." <br />
<br />
The question of what to carry can never be answered once and for all. It's a lesson that unfolds as our priorities change, as we get to know ourselves better, and as we grow.<br />
<br />
As
for Paul from New Zealand, I caught up with him a hundred miles later.
"I got rid of my extra pack!" he said. "I just . . . let it go!"
Because he found out that he really could.<br />
<br />
<br />Christi Krughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10207062849832227699noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7159166572774050478.post-61035801453686185742014-08-28T22:26:00.004-07:002016-01-19T08:50:31.049-08:00The Real Journey is This<div style="text-align: center;">
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsuobG49d6b_uE3PcDesy8owsCbcfFGdno8KneWWkNGqkeZBW3W6k7LMVm1ZrWjLpgndgR4_VuXv5hbQSJkOmYAoZUCKZbBpsI3VS2PqXEQwuC8BL-5owCbpcKsoIydEgkjFxD68Gbs7Q/s1600/P7060123.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsuobG49d6b_uE3PcDesy8owsCbcfFGdno8KneWWkNGqkeZBW3W6k7LMVm1ZrWjLpgndgR4_VuXv5hbQSJkOmYAoZUCKZbBpsI3VS2PqXEQwuC8BL-5owCbpcKsoIydEgkjFxD68Gbs7Q/s1600/P7060123.JPG" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Navarre, Spain - along the Camino de Santiago CJ Krug</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #4c1130;">The Real Work</span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #4c1130;">
</span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #4c1130;">It may be that when we no longer know what to do</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #4c1130;">we have come to our real work,</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #4c1130;">and that when we no longer know which way to go</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #4c1130;">we have come to our real journey.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #4c1130;">The mind that is not baffled is not employed.</span></span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "times new roman" , serif;"><span style="color: #4c1130;">The impeded stream is the one that sings.</span></span></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: #4c1130;"><br /></span></div>
<div style="text-align: center;">
<br />
<br />
<span style="color: #4c1130;">by <a href="http://www.wendellberrybooks.com/">Wendell Berry</a>, from Collected Poems, 1987</span></div>
Christi Krughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10207062849832227699noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7159166572774050478.post-7351938083765343192014-08-28T21:46:00.001-07:002014-08-28T21:46:38.157-07:00El Camino de Santiago: A New Beginning, A Look BackAs I begin my Camino this week, I look back at my visit ten years
ago. I started on what is known as the "French Way," hiking over the
Pyrenees into Spain. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1gYXm1_T_OtJfMkqzYNfY8WcrUYrYg-qP34dtt9_nAAWTFCN4U9taNfMcsBnGU8pCTFm0KAw6ZxtZh2Mr_dF1qJeBwPQ-LM63ryfMa08yblmpxRSD48WfCVl59RHqxlKCsSfKhN7jGZY/s1600/P6290027.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1gYXm1_T_OtJfMkqzYNfY8WcrUYrYg-qP34dtt9_nAAWTFCN4U9taNfMcsBnGU8pCTFm0KAw6ZxtZh2Mr_dF1qJeBwPQ-LM63ryfMa08yblmpxRSD48WfCVl59RHqxlKCsSfKhN7jGZY/s1600/P6290027.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Pilgrim Anne gets credit for starting me on the journey. She has hiked the Camino three times! </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdiuadgnSpkcKTWhe-kuHapUn4yO8aQ3U8pfdv8ZCad8M3LJlLYTpUKy8e7VX10k9gfofAdYnkZV3dddwXjhsssPKGCSfbOwdQyUVbiSFUiQNLZ21Nt0TPNF17qW_ATqSL1vguQUIf-C8/s1600/P6290029.JPG" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdiuadgnSpkcKTWhe-kuHapUn4yO8aQ3U8pfdv8ZCad8M3LJlLYTpUKy8e7VX10k9gfofAdYnkZV3dddwXjhsssPKGCSfbOwdQyUVbiSFUiQNLZ21Nt0TPNF17qW_ATqSL1vguQUIf-C8/s1600/P6290029.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
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<br />
That
first visit, I completed 150 miles of the French Way. This time, I'll
pick up the trail in Leon and continue to Santiago. I'm not married to
any plan, though - and I'm not sure how much blogging I'll be doing, as
I'm not carrying any wired gadgets.<br />
<br />
Silence, for me, is a key component of the walk. <br />
<br />
And so is the willingness to accept what comes.<br />
<br />
My
first pilgrimage taught me that the most important thing is an open
heart toward every experience, even if it takes you away from what you
thought was supposed to happen. <br />
<br />
My intention now, is to savor each step and discovery. In truth, you're only ever here <i>once. </i>Christi Krughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10207062849832227699noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7159166572774050478.post-53983285073943763262014-08-20T13:42:00.001-07:002014-08-20T14:39:22.549-07:00El Camino de Santiago, Finding the Path, and Getting Lost<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQAVhUkk8Q4L6LjocT49r9oJwBtcpYryBhtijLRdinuKvgwmlXzRc8hTpjrE3IO9Z1acDqNJRZxJZy5M8WAsszYFUdddUciu0pxnx68CkiU99vlmveujqE-7_RMXwtud5IuFdvAAt-L2M/s1600/scallop.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQAVhUkk8Q4L6LjocT49r9oJwBtcpYryBhtijLRdinuKvgwmlXzRc8hTpjrE3IO9Z1acDqNJRZxJZy5M8WAsszYFUdddUciu0pxnx68CkiU99vlmveujqE-7_RMXwtud5IuFdvAAt-L2M/s1600/scallop.jpg" height="260" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A decade ago, I joined a friend on El Camino de Santiago,
the ancient pilgrimage in northern Spain. Marked by the yellow scallop shell, <span style="color: black; mso-themecolor: text1;">the road has been traveled by countless
pilgrims over eight hundred years.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: black; mso-themecolor: text1;">I came home with </span>blistered feet, a mind
full of landscapes and faces, and a soul that felt certain I was on the right
path. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then, last summer, that path ran in circles. It trailed
into the woods. It disappeared. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I’d known exactly where I was in my life, in my relationships
and roles. Now I looked up and nothing seemed familiar. <a href="http://www.pinterest.com/christikrug/getting-lost/" target="_blank">I was lost.</a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At first, I panicked. And then, over the months, I began to change. Now I understand that <i>lostness</i> is an important part of the
journey.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
If we are certain of our destination, and how it will
unfold, we can’t be nudged, guided, led to new things. We become glib and presumptuous.
We stop listening to the Spirit.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
<br /></div>
Barbara Brown Taylor, in her book, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">An Altar in the World</i>, writes about getting lost as a spiritual practice. “[S]omething is happening to you in this
wilderness that does not happen when you are safe at home.”<br />
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Indeed, one afternoon last summer, traveling Germany's oldest city with my husband, an even stranger thing happened. <i>H<span style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">e</span></i> got lost. This never happens. He has a mind like a map. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Caught in a drizzle, we retraced our steps for miles. He
sighed over the guidebook that had made sense until now. It felt like the perfect metaphor for our
relationship, for my soul, for all the lostness I felt.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then we turned a corner.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
There it was: the scallop shell. Turns out, we were on the Camino--Jakobsweg, as it’s known in Germany. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL1JE029VOUZLkUghOKvoGZNFKQNEPFPbgktch8NKTArInwLBL3-3F8DpjSk-NPLThmdEIlGtZBB81mykYBRpRS3jpIyyypsxM8F7Rpv9YyPlRigoZ0pdu24q5Zd8cdIWkNmEamG9TLPg/s1600/Jakobsweg.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL1JE029VOUZLkUghOKvoGZNFKQNEPFPbgktch8NKTArInwLBL3-3F8DpjSk-NPLThmdEIlGtZBB81mykYBRpRS3jpIyyypsxM8F7Rpv9YyPlRigoZ0pdu24q5Zd8cdIWkNmEamG9TLPg/s1600/Jakobsweg.jpg" height="508" width="640" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVR-ru1DEwuffo-45H2RkIU5PoRuCvx4077Me_25AcSc38EHudNJxoWLYXbf5-AL4f1F4ENAqY3tBDKBqKItHsTKnUcv1CUjH2emg1Omt8MTT7KlUCJY4eFUHFq7aidsZLiQmhXwMK_lM/s1600/Jakobsweb.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I was on my path even when I felt most lost.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Again and again, I heard the consolation of Spirit: “You’re
exactly where you belong.” The sweet thing is, I can’t give myself credit. I’m humbled to
keep following, keep listening, and not take anything or anyone for granted.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Last Sunday I gathered with a small group of Camino veterans.
They blessed me and gave me a scallop shell for my journey.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Because I’m heading out again. In about a week, I’m going back
on the Camino, an outward walk to complement my inward practice. I have a
deeper understanding of pilgrimage now, allowing for surprises and the unknown.
Knowing that being lost, and being on the path, are often the very same thing.</div>
<br />Christi Krughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10207062849832227699noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7159166572774050478.post-67375254081456666402014-06-27T10:45:00.002-07:002014-06-27T12:46:22.382-07:00His Third Wife: Lessons on Marriage and Becoming<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgSE2u8JmTCUWPh5HnL8bC4-miZNLuBvojWJQDDux-RgrFONJgV5tiGMPAzOpt8FNkU-MCJqedM5RzvGZyT7FR8uPw9Re08jxXQGDTJcKYLNafMwN6H6Z4NEO1bkmqpsflvlsX_Cz16Kf8/s1600/Sharing+the+Throne.jpg" height="300" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="400" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The second husband, the second wife</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<br /></div>
The husband and I have been discussing his second wife.<br />
<br />
"I miss her," he says.<br />
<br />
"She was sweet," I agree.<br />
<br />
"She did so many nice things," he says.<br />
<br />
"Yes." I should know. That second wife was me.<br />
<br />
Over
the past twelve months - a difficult year, a beautiful year - I've learned new things about myself. I've resolved to honor that person. I've delved into my gifts with
fresh vigor. I've grown and challenged myself to paint,
play, write, and wander. <br />
<br />
I've become a new person.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfKFYKKFiFklJbxz6n8_Es_2_XfDDfDA0B9EMyq6dHMzvJGWIezzi4wK9R8YHUHLwBn55KG7REuIAfNsJubK42mjmD829oU5KiS8_pqenpPRBGn1TZrVYdX4a0BN_Z9s4QAcuTg7j-KSE/s1600/just+me+at+hut+in+austria.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhfKFYKKFiFklJbxz6n8_Es_2_XfDDfDA0B9EMyq6dHMzvJGWIezzi4wK9R8YHUHLwBn55KG7REuIAfNsJubK42mjmD829oU5KiS8_pqenpPRBGn1TZrVYdX4a0BN_Z9s4QAcuTg7j-KSE/s1600/just+me+at+hut+in+austria.jpg" height="451" width="640" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Exploring new territory</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I'm
no longer the wife who makes dinner every night, or joins her husband
on the couch for movies. I've stopped scheduling social events on his
behalf. I don't ask for permission any more - to put my art on the
walls, to make new friends, or to write and create on a Saturday instead
of hang out with the hubs. <br />
<br />
I know. Some of you wives are gasping in disbelief. Others are jealous.<br />
<br />
It's
been a process of honesty and investigation - finding out what I'm
truly about and discovering how to be this human being. I trust that the
more I'm following Spirit, the more I can bless the world. <br />
<br />
It's my job alone to become this human being. Gone are the days of wanting someone else to define me, even my husband.<br />
<br />
Which means I'm now his third wife.<br />
<br />
Situations
will arise, and I'll say, or he'll say, "The second wife would've
said yes." Ah, but the third wife says no. Or waits. Or says what she
really thinks about it. <br />
<br />
And in all this, there's a dialogue, a noticing, a freedom, a new way.<br />
<br />
I've
been grateful for the guides and friends who have supported me on this
journey. They've acknowledged how this needed to happen; they've been
witnesses to the <i>me</i> who was hiding.<br />
<br />
Hiding and calling it service. Calling it wifehood. Really it wasn't so servy after all.<br />
<br />
True service only happens when you know who you are. <br />
<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGh6Y35GunSzMCuw91lFKmo55vFZNdPBkV1XqzGGX-fk3Rs8Wx-4rrzoJwujCait5rQmdkFyfg6vB0PCEcQTAEn9EzRGOfQSZr4SJzvnuiAreVa0cccyGHxBkk5d9xPeaDvNwQrlUloQU/s1600/P1000193.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjGh6Y35GunSzMCuw91lFKmo55vFZNdPBkV1XqzGGX-fk3Rs8Wx-4rrzoJwujCait5rQmdkFyfg6vB0PCEcQTAEn9EzRGOfQSZr4SJzvnuiAreVa0cccyGHxBkk5d9xPeaDvNwQrlUloQU/s1600/P1000193.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Where two rivers meet (the Rhine and the Mosel)</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
So
the other morning, the husband said, "You just keep getting prettier
and prettier." Which is sweet. This second husband of mine has always
been so wonderful with compliments.<br />
<br />
I paused. "You like the way I'm changing on the outside. But you don't like the other ways I'm changing." <br />
<br />
"That's right!" he chirped, grinning. <br />
<br />
"Ohmygosh!" I said. "You just told me the truth of your feelings!" We both laughed.<br />
<br />
Obviously, this is no longer my second husband. <br />
<br />
This one is my third.<br />
<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
<br />
<i>And if you're curious, here's what happened to <a href="http://radicaldivorce.com/interview-christi-krug/">first husband/first wife</a>.</i>Christi Krughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10207062849832227699noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7159166572774050478.post-74816643187950931062014-06-18T10:59:00.003-07:002014-06-18T11:00:09.285-07:00A Different Kind of Shopping <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Added a thing or two to the husband's shopping list . . . .</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq1-tPoF4sfpUzAHrQdQYP7iXHUDmAl7K9p-vFvBr-MjvZmuvlGOUR5uTwo8qh3IjWoGnqXoAdSKcXBC6A0epFHIo9ikk-g3QHZXX_RsGIGB1NMJfBTTCvs9z7zhUtbSmlKkr5rSDunqc/s1600/shopping+list.jpg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq1-tPoF4sfpUzAHrQdQYP7iXHUDmAl7K9p-vFvBr-MjvZmuvlGOUR5uTwo8qh3IjWoGnqXoAdSKcXBC6A0epFHIo9ikk-g3QHZXX_RsGIGB1NMJfBTTCvs9z7zhUtbSmlKkr5rSDunqc/s1600/shopping+list.jpg" height="640" width="490" /> </a></div>
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When he got home he said there was one thing Winco didn't have. </div>
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Funny, my friend <a href="http://martinseke.blogspot.com/2009/07/caution.html" target="_blank">Gypmar found it there</a> quite some time ago.</div>
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Because, you know, Big Feelings can give way to spiritual insight. </div>
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Just a reminder to keep the truly important things on your list, even if you're not sure where to find them. </div>
<br />Christi Krughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10207062849832227699noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7159166572774050478.post-56972221980527329502014-05-08T07:52:00.001-07:002014-05-08T13:14:01.404-07:00Journaling as a Spiritual Practice: The Light Gathers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
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<br />
It begins as a blank page when you have nothing to say. It creeps, line by line, into a <a href="http://www.afirebynight.blogspot.com/2014/05/honest-to-god.html" target="_blank">journal entry </a>on a sad morning. <br />
<br />
But here's what amazes me: how the light gathers. How a journal becomes a beacon. <br />
<br />
That's the beauty of journaling as a spiritual practice.<br />
<br />
You don't think you have anything to say. You don't think there's anyone listening, anyway.<br />
<br />
<br />
But
when you go to the place of telling the truth, just telling the truth,
to the highest force of Truth you know, there's always light. The light
gathers. <br />
<br />
So many times we are caught up in telling
ourselves things, pretending we feel what we don't, demanding we be who
are not. This goes along with the trap of saying prayers we don't
believe. <br />
<br />
Truth is better.<br />
<br />
Being <i>where you are</i> is the only beginning.<br />
<br />
When you touch the darkest, most honest, most frightening truth, you're pierced by a sliver of light. <br />
<br />
The
Presence can't work with you if you're trying to impress yourself or
your deity. The Presence has no use for ego-construction projects. The
architecture of protection only hides what we need to see about
ourselves.<br />
<br />
So when you visit your journal today, don't worry about writing something spiritual or profound. Stop protecting yourself from <i>what is.</i><br />
<br />
Ask:<br />
<br />
<b> What is the most honest thing I can say to God right now?</b><br />
<br />
And say it. <br />
<br />
Christi Krughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10207062849832227699noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7159166572774050478.post-63669521272796245702014-05-07T11:09:00.002-07:002014-05-08T07:23:01.011-07:00Honest to GodA fog of longing and disappointment is falling over me this morning.<br />
<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicA-1GotnvygaoXs62dOn3n03cn89iKgsD9NafVZAPL7036MBIy8GOuZj8x55ZE8lvJ6cZoELXNvF7fqUSUVtTdiFRvOrPJ04rJ60mpPkq9BKx718TIqWw4RnZGED7bjKh9TbhWeeUFsw/s1600/IMG_2918.JPG" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicA-1GotnvygaoXs62dOn3n03cn89iKgsD9NafVZAPL7036MBIy8GOuZj8x55ZE8lvJ6cZoELXNvF7fqUSUVtTdiFRvOrPJ04rJ60mpPkq9BKx718TIqWw4RnZGED7bjKh9TbhWeeUFsw/s320/IMG_2918.JPG" height="300" width="400" /></a></div>
<br />
I pretend not to feel it. <i>Needy, lost.</i><br />
<br />
This isn't how I want to be. This isn't how I want God to see me.<br />
<br />
Then it comes to me: tell the truth.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
I'd rather keep pretending for myself, others, and the Presence, that I am fabulously enlightened and so over-the-world.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
It's only when I connect with what is real that I can begin to see.
<i>Tell the truth.</i><br />
<br />
I ask myself: <span style="color: #990000;">What's the most honest thing I can say to God right now?</span><br />
<br />
It's the most powerful question I know.
I let go pretending.<br />
<br />
There's only me and the Truth - no one else's definition of who I am, or who I should be. And, no one else's definition of God.<br />
<br />
What I notice this morning is how hard I'm trying to make myself acceptable.<br />
<br />
Noising off in my head, and everywhere, about my efforts, my prayers, my dedication, my meditation.<br />
<br />
Merely noise.<br />
<br />
Because I don't feel it: accepted.<br />
<br />
The most honest thing I can say to the Presence right now is -
<i>Hey. I am really messing up here. I'm clingy, chaotic, distracted, addicted.</i><br />
<br />
<i>I'm no good at making myself happy.
I know better, and I'm afraid to show you who I am. </i><br />
<br />
<i>Moody, selfish, erratic, and confused. </i><br />
<br />
<i>A demanding and apathetic wife.
An inconsistent, obsessive friend.
A distant, unreliable mom.
</i><br />
<br />
<i>Dear Presence: I want to be different. I remember Your beauty inside me. </i><br />
<br />
<i>Right now I can't find it. </i><br />
<br />
<i>Help. </i><br />
<br />
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Christi Krughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10207062849832227699noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7159166572774050478.post-22691907443810513642014-04-15T11:46:00.000-07:002014-04-15T11:46:31.615-07:00Living in My Host Human<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
"So how are you?" <br />
<br />
Such
a simple question. But I'm having a hard time with the answer. Does the
person want a real answer or a simple one? Does she want to know the
status of my survival? The facts of my life? Or does the person want a
picture of my soul?<br />
<br />
I've been stunt-jumping on a tricky
course. I've been slogging through personal growth and healing. I may
feel peaceful, jubilant, sad, confused, ambivalent, or all of these
things at once.<br />
<br />
It's really kind of amazing to step back and watch the weather of the heart. <br />
<br />
Yesterday I met a friend for lunch. "How are you?"<br />
<br />
"I'm doing great," I said. "My host human is having some issues, but I'm doing great."<br />
<br />
My friend smiled. "Your host - wait." He smiled. He got it.<br />
<br />
So
I'm seeing all that is going on with me - relationship questions,
creative energy, perimenopausal mood swings, adventures, dreams, and
heartbreak - all of this is temporary. It's the stuff that comes with
living in a human body.<br />
<br />
I have this deep-rooted sense
of well-being below all of it, in the center of all of it. And as I
identify with who I really am, this spirit connected to the Presence,
this eternal being living in an earth moment, well - I can experience
the ride without judgment. At the same time, I don't have to gloss over
the feelings.<br />
<br />
<br />
Oh, my host human. She's pretty great. But I'm glad she won't be like this forever.<br />
<br />
<i>Image Credit: Rocky Mountain Laboratories, NIAID, NIH</i>Christi Krughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10207062849832227699noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7159166572774050478.post-28817133058851705432014-04-08T20:23:00.000-07:002014-04-08T20:28:48.477-07:00Going Public: Being Online and Hating It<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNz6TF6gs7M0rs3SrFcZADeRslY7a1-OYU87A0DaUIRmGY5uGtdAQOzf0DegphOLLzQqt5z6H8SClKffYhGga3jCxERp4uY8VIlMVwq6oTVdLwfpl4VQeFIq_2sClbKeoFNfTVbSYsLvw/s1600/Frog_Legs_Rag_1.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgNz6TF6gs7M0rs3SrFcZADeRslY7a1-OYU87A0DaUIRmGY5uGtdAQOzf0DegphOLLzQqt5z6H8SClKffYhGga3jCxERp4uY8VIlMVwq6oTVdLwfpl4VQeFIq_2sClbKeoFNfTVbSYsLvw/s400/Frog_Legs_Rag_1.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5605891499853171586" style="cursor: hand; cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 238px;" /></a><br />
I'm Nobody! Who are you?<br />
Are you—Nobody—Too?<br />
Then there's a pair of us!<br />
Don't tell! They'd advertise—you know!<br />
<br />
How dreary—to be—Somebody!<br />
How public—like a Frog—<br />
To tell one's name—the livelong June—<br />
To an admiring Bog! <br />
<br />
--Emily Dickinson<br />
<br />
There are days I hate social networking. I catch myself trying too hard to be Somebody.<br />
<br />
Marketers and publicists talk about how important it is for a business owner and author to be visible. But as a sensitive person, I become stretched and thin.<br />
<br />
I'm waving tentacles, trying to get some random, invisible crowd to notice. <br />
<br />
Then I realize, this whole online thing doesn't have to be a great fit.<br />
<br />
I notice others - ordinary people, saints, and poets, who have chosen to put their energy elsewhere.<br />
<br />
My true life isn't in what people are noticing or not noticing. My true life is in that secret chamber of the spirit, connecting to something far greater than "famousness."<br />
<br />
The trick then, is participating, but not immersing myself in blogging and networking. Not letting myself feel worthy or unworthy according to the outcome or readership.<br />
<br />
Understanding the value is a temporary thing. It's a fleeting but useable tool for my work.<br />
<br />
It's living in a paradox.<br />
<br />
Really, I could desert the whole outfit, become a recluse like Emily Dickinson, and be perfectly happy, but what good would that do the universe?<br />
<br />
Fleeing the other frogs is just as self-centered as getting into croaking competitions with them. <br />
<br />
Croak on, frogs. I know who I am.<br />
<br />
<i>And what about you? Who are you . . . really? </i>Christi Krughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10207062849832227699noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7159166572774050478.post-34370035498444051332014-03-26T10:49:00.003-07:002014-03-26T10:49:59.921-07:00The Swan<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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<br />
<br />
The Swan<br />
<br />
This laboring through what is still undone<br />
as though, legs bound, we hobbled along the way,<br />
is like the awkward walking of the swan.<br />
<br />
And dying - to let go, no longer feel<br />
the solid ground we stand on every day -<br />
is like his anxious letting himself fall<br />
<br />
into the water, which receives him gently<br />
and which, as though with reverence and joy,<br />
draws back past him in streams on either side;<br />
while, infinitely silent and aware,<br />
in his full majesty and ever more<br />
indifferent, he condescends to glide.<br />
<br />
--Rainier Maria Rilke; translation by Stephen Mitchell<br />
<br />Christi Krughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10207062849832227699noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7159166572774050478.post-64178049242960135422014-03-16T14:09:00.001-07:002014-03-17T17:30:10.259-07:00Spring Cleaning: Who I Used to Be<br />
Going through closets and cupboards, I’m finding things I haven’t touched for years.<br />
<br />
• Cookie cutters for baking with the kids, all of whom are in their twenties now <br />
• A professional black and white blazer<br />
• Pumpkin carvers for Halloween <br />
• Red satin heels that went with dresses I no longer own <br />
• A lace jacket that scratched my skin<br />
• Medicines for past ailments<br />
• A black cashmere sweater that gave my neck a rash <br />
• Strong’s Concordance for studying the Bible <br />
<br />
These
things reflect the person I used to be: the mom who doted on her kids,
the eager-to-please wife, the on-and-off again administrative assistant,
the conservative Christian. <br />
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<br />
She
was willing to wear uncomfortable things for the sake of looking nice.
She was conscious of cost, and didn’t throw out anything that had been pricey. She invested greatly in her children and family
and their times together. <br />
<br />
But life asks us to recognize the present. To acknowledge our changing.<br />
<br />
Really, I’m not very good at spring cleaning. But I am getting the message about what to notice.<br />
<br />
This person whose things I’m giving away - I’m not that person anymore. There’s a part of me who doesn’t want to let her go. Yet I’m willing. <br />
<br />
I’m at a crossroads, with a new empty nest, a changing focus, an evolving creativity and relationship with God. <br />
<br />
I
remember another crossroads fifteen years ago. A friend shared a
Zen Kōan, the story of a man who crosses a river, then picks up
the boat and carries it with him wherever he goes.<br />
<br />
Once you have taken the boat across the river, you don’t need it anymore. <br />
<br />
There are many rivers I’ve crossed, and I honor them, and I’m grateful for all the vessels that have brought me along. <br />
<br />
And now as I take the next step on land, I’m a little lighter, a little more free. <br />
<br />Christi Krughttp://www.blogger.com/profile/10207062849832227699noreply@blogger.com2