Writing, Parenting, and Working in the Mess: Authentic Spirituality and Social Justice

Tonight I went to church for the inaugural Academy Awards movie night sponsored by the social action committee. I thought the new event was a great idea—a chance to see some good movies (most of which I would never otherwise get a chance to see), and to have some good, and, I hoped, deep discussion about the issues the movie addressed or reflected. Tonight’s movie was Crash. There were about 20 people there, ranging in age from five to 80-something. I won’t even attempt to write an astute review of the movie itself. I have a terrible memory, and I need to see a movie at least three times before I feel like I’ve really taken it in—and while this is also true for the things I read, I seem to be especially flawed at following a plot on screen. I was excited nevertheless to talk about the movie afterwards, to see what a movie about race relations in L.A. might say to a bunch of liberal Christians living in West Central Minnesota. After the movie, as usual, everyone was reluctant to talk....

I decided I would read each of the Greek Orthodox Holy Week services this year in place of my morning meditation. This morning, I read the Monday night service, which centered around the parable of the 10 virgins who wait for the bridegroom to show up to take them to the wedding feast. Half of them run out of oil while waiting, and of course the bridegroom comes at exactly the moment when they have gone looking for more oil. Because they aren’t there when he arrives, they are locked out of the wedding feast. The parable is part Boy Scout motto, part Mean Girls . (Did I mention that when the “unprepared” virgins ask the other ones to share some of their oil, they are refused?) It’s always been more than a little troubling. It reaffirms already problematic stereotypes about women. It positions God as a man-to-be-desired, one who takes his time, who deserves to be waited for, one with the power to turn people away. In the story, there are no second chances, no rewards for the women who to...

When I was a kid, I learned there were two Easters: “American” Easter, the one most of my friends celebrated, and “Greek Easter,” the “real” Easter. American Easter often fell on Greek Palm Sunday, so when all of my friends were joyfully eating whatever they gave up for Lent, I was bitterly following a strict Holy Week diet (eating nothing from an animal for seven days) and going to church at least once every night. Actually, that’s the narrative most Greek-Americans tell about their childhoods, but truthfully, I loved Holy Week. It was my favorite time of year. Now, the closest Greek Orthodox Church is three hours away. Since I moved to Minnesota six years ago, I have driven into the Twin Cities to attend “Greek” Good Friday and Easter liturgy every year. I miss the earlier though less ornate services, like Lazarus Saturday, a simple Liturgy the day before Palm Sunday that ended with the women gathering in the church to dye the eggs for Easter and fold the palms for Palm Sunday. I lov...

I seem to have developed the worst memory for what I read—as well as a terrible habit of watching Law and Order reruns whenever I'm exhausted at the end of the day. I had a mother who was fanatical about making sure our lives never revolved around T.V., so naturally, as an adult, I chose a partner who insisted when we moved in together that we needed satellite T.V., and I find myself turning on the television much more often than ever before (but never, it seems, at a time when something actually good is on!). I don’t know if the T.V. habit is pure laziness or connected in some way to a need to turn off my brain after a long day or (as one friend suggested) an attempt to numb out so I won't have to do the writing I'm supposed to be doing. Probably a combination of all of the above. In any case, I’m hoping this blog will get me back into the habit of reading daily and thoughtfully, of living the way I used to live, partly in my regular waking life and partly in the imaginar...

Today, when asked, “What do you think the theme of Cinderella is?” a fifth grader answered enthusiastically, “Don’t lose your shoe!” I was observing a service-learning student who is teaching creative writing in the elementary school. The fifth graders had been working on a short story for a couple weeks, and today, they were learning now to bring together all the elements of story writing, to make something of meaning. The idea that stories need to mean something isn’t a simple concept to explain or understand. As soon as the kid shouted out, “Don’t lose your shoe!” several students kicked off their shoes and wiggled their toes. I had to keep from laughing out loud. Later, the fifth graders diligently continued to work on their stories while my student made the rounds. One student sat at his desk, hands folded, not writing. My student approached this boy and said, “I’ve never seen you before. Are you in this class?” He shrugged. “Is this where you’re supposed to be?” she repeated, us...

Today, Chitra Banerjee Divakaruni came to the University of Minnesota, Morris, the small, public liberal arts college where I teach creative writing and first-year writing and coordinate the service-learning program. I had the opportunity to meet with her and two of my students for an hour to talk about writing and, later, to hear her give a public reading and lecture. I love Divakaruni's novel _Queen of Dreams_. Admittedly, it is the only one of her 14 books that I have read (though after her reading tonight, I will certainly be reading more). It is a beautifully written book that resonates with the topic of this blog--writing, spirituality, and social justice. When reading Divakaruni's novel, it is clear that she is as much a poet as she is fiction writer. Her sentences are lyrical and heavy with vivid imagery. I use the word "heavy" intentionally, because when reading _Queen of Dreams_, I felt I was part of a world that was dangerous and oppressive, full of secrets...

I wasn't going to do this. First of all, I am severely technologically impaired, to say the least. Second, my life seems to me to always be too full--I never have enough time to get anything done, so why take on another responsibility? Third, I am one of those writers who puts off writing whenever something that seems at the time to be more "important" or "necessary" comes up, and who has been known to abandon my spiritual practices when I need them most, and, finally, who has been known to get discouraged, exhausted, overwhelmed, and even depressed in the process of working for social justice. Lastly, I am generally shy. My partner and friends might disagree, but believe me, when it comes to the question of what it means to live a life of integrity, I feel wary of making myself vulnerable in my exploration. So, as I said, I wasn't going to do this. But in the last year, I have had so many young writers, activists, and spiritual seekers ask me how I do ...