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

Every year since I moved to Minnesota, I’ve been going to GLBT Pride in the Twin Cities to sit at a booth and talk to alumni and prospective students about the university where I work. And every year, at one point or another, I get emotional, remembering my first Pride in Cincinnati in what must have been 1994. The “parade” included a total of about 50 people, mostly a group called the “Lesbian Avengers,” some half-naked men, and some drag queens, along with a few of us unaffiliated but politically active types. We marched on a sidewalk (there was no permit, if I am remembering correctly) across the city and ended up in a park, where a few people gave a few speeches. Then we grilled some veggie burgers and stood around either flirting with each other or talking about social justice and what we needed to do to progress the movement or both. Later that night we all went to the same dyke bar (whichever one of the two in the city was our favorite) and hung out with our friends and danced a...

In my last entry I wrote about retreat, and how mine in particular forced me to contend with my rage. The real test of a retreat, though, is how one uses the insights she learned as her life continues. I am doing well. On my first day back, S commented on how I was not getting angry as easily. I am back in control of myself, which means I’m being a better parent—in other words, when S raises her voice or cusses or makes violent or illogical comments, I can correct and give consequences without feeling guilty. Before, consequences seemed a bit crazy since I, too, was losing it on a regular basis. S and I have had multiple talks since my return about what happened to me while I was there. I haven’t told her every detail, but I have shared how my anger had taken over my life, and how I needed to stop being afraid to be angry, but to find ways to let it out without hurting others. I can remind her of how I came to these lessons when she loses control. But, by Sunday morning, I had a new s...

I lie on my stomach on the ground, my fists pounding the earth, my whole body convulsing, picturing violent images I didn’t know could possibly make their way into my mind. I am hurting people I know—even people I love--running them over with my car, or pounding them with my fists, or kicking them in the stomach. The pounding goes on and on as memory after memory from the last year washes over me. My fists swell, my feet ache—I realized I am kicking, too—and my voice grows hoarse from screaming. It wasn’t supposed to go this way. I was on a short retreat. I was supposed to mourn the year’s unresolved grief so that I could get back to being in the present moment. Instead, halfway through, I was on my stomach in the center of a labyrinth that was supposed to be used for silent meditation, pounding and screaming. This was how I came to understand that working through anger is a spiritual practice as real as prayer, and studying sacred texts, and yoga, and meditation. I’d expected to use m...