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

I rode into the town where I currently live for the first time in the spring of 2000 for my job interview. I wanted to put Phoenix behind me. I’d gone there in love with the desert, and I still dream that landscape—the path I hiked every day in my last year there to the top of South Mountain, the rattlesnake’s tail-drumming, the ocotillo’s bright yellow blossoms, the feeling of being always on the edge. And I was on the edge in every way—the only safe place I had was that path, those walks—I needed to get out. And so, of course, I fell in love with the flat nothingness immediately. The prairie didn’t feel like nothingness—after the mountainous, hot, suffocating desert, the prairie felt open and new and alive, but I wasn’t really seeing it. I saw pieces of the landscape—the corn’s floppy ears, the purple coneflowers straining their one-eyed, wild-haired faces toward the sun, the wetland’s pimpled-green, stagnant surface. If I had an eye at all when I arrived, it wasn’t a ...

When I lived in Cincinnati just after graduating college, I used to go once a month or so on a retreat at a place called Grailville. It was an all-women spiritual space, and back then, if I’m remembering correctly, I could get a room with a large window, a comfortable bed, an electric blanket and handmade quilt, and a small desk for about $15 a night. It was a beautiful place with walking paths in the woods, a meditation room, and a dining hall (with all organic meals and an indoor compost), or, if you preferred, a small kitchenette that was private. I’d go on group writing and spiritual retreats there, too, but I loved knowing that once a month, I’d have this time and space away from it all, on my own. What was I escaping exactly? I can’t say for sure. I lived alone, unless you count my anti-social cat. But I had a wide circle of friends back then, friends that stopped over regularly, friends that were like family. I also had a few intense, short-term relationships that felt all...

I have gotten into the bad habit of reading old e-mails and/or surfing the web after S. goes to bed. I had planned for the one or two hours between my bedtime and hers to be my writing time—at least, when I didn’t have extra work that needed to get done. I haven't sent anything out for publication in over a year, and I’ve yet to return to the novel-in-progress--but I am finally writing poetry again, which feels good. Anyway, I digress... Tonight was a web-surfing night—I couldn’t get my head clear enough to write, partly because my daughter refused to go to bed until she'd talked to her boyfriend. The house has thin walls, and I confess I have a hard time tuning out her phone conversations. So, although I tried to surf the web, really I ended up listening to one of many conversations that are always part heartbreaking, part hilarious, and part frustrating. For instance, today’s went like this: P! Are you listening? P! What kind of wedding do you want, formal or semi-formal...

It was April 2002, the last day of GLBT Pride week at the college where I teach. We gathered as usual for a celebration potluck at the home of my friend, who co-advises the GLBTA organization. We were tired but joyful--proud of the excellent work the students had done to bring nationally-known speakers and performers to campus. As twilight began to fall, the students left in small groups, planning their weekends. I remember telling them to be safe and, jokingly, saying “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” “That shouldn’t restrict us to too much,” one of them joked back. I have a picture in my mind of us sitting in that circle; I can still hear the deep laughter of one of the co-chairs, Jen, and see another member, Dustin, running his fingers through his hair as he paused dramatically during a funny story. In this picture, they are innocent, untouched by anything hateful or harmful, proud of who they are, and safe. I can see the big prairie sky turning from blue to pink to blue-...

I am beginning to realize that parenting a teenage child out of foster care requires two attributes more than anything else: resilience and openness. These are the same attributes required, I think, to do the work of social justice, and to teach, and to write. It is important to be able to weather the ups and downs in the process; the difference is that those ups and downs are more tangible, more painful or joyful, in the parenting process than in other areas of my life. It is also important to be open both to the depth of love and pain AND to the wonder of every moment. In writing, this is true, or a good piece can't get written. In social justice work, this is true, or the horrors of our communities and world will overshadow what is beautiful and good and keep the activist from doing her work. In teaching, it's true, or else the students will stop being people and begin to become obstacles or problems. In parenting, it's true because it's the only way to make parentin...

Last week, S. saw her teacher reading a book during free time that she'd also read, a devotional book about women in the Bible. The conversation went like this: S: I've read that book before, too! Teacher: You have? S: Yes! I made it as far as Lot's wife. Her teacher thought this exchange was funny and shared it with me. It IS funny, of course, but it is also a bit chilling. During the story of Soddom and Gomorrah, Lot's wife is an innocent victim. God sends angels to save Lot's family, but some people come to the door to, depending on the translation you read, rape or harm in some other way the angels. Lot offers the people his daughters instead of the angels--where was Lot's wife at this moment, one wonders?--and in the end, Lot and his family are permitted by God to escape as long as they don't look back. Lot's wife looks back and is turned into a pillar of salt. Every day, S. has to decide whether looking back will keep her from moving forward. Will ...

It is hard to believe that the last time I wrote here, in late March, I was wrote about an unexpected snow storm; today, as I write in late April on Greek Orthodox Good Friday, it is again snowing like mad in my small MN town. Last week my daughter enjoyed an extra-long horse lesson in 70 degree weather; today, her school let out an hour early, and her horse lesson was cancelled. So much can change in a week. During the last week in March, I went from living alone (unless you count my anti-social cat) in a small, rural college town to living with a 14-year-old daughter and a little dog. S. and I are both adjusting well overall. We have had conflicts. We have wept together and laughed--a lot--together. We've struggled through homework assignments and misunderstandings and talks about painful memories from her past. But we are making it. I have been able, so far, to maintain some balance in my life. I'm genuinely enjoying spending time with S. at home and advocating for her in ot...

Yesterday I saw the bare ground where my garden was last summer for the first time; today it's covered again by at least four inches of snow, and the snow is still coming down. When I told my soon-to-be daughter, who will be moving here in less than a week, she said she couldn't believe it. Even after her visit during the coldest week of the year here, when temperatures dropped to 20 below (that's without wind chill), she has trouble imagining snow at the end fo March. Living in west central MN teaches us to expect the unexpected. My future daughter has started acting out in preparation for her move next week. She's doing things she hasn't done for years, and she's totally aware of this and even knows the reason--she is testing me and others to make sure we will still care for her if she messes up. I had not expected the conversations we had this week, had not expected to be dealing with some old behaviors so early in the move, even though plenty of people and ...

When I Tell You I’m Adopting a 14-Year-Old Foster Child, Here’s What You Should and Shouldn’t Say, For Future Reference: 1. Don’t tell me what a “beautiful” or “kind” or “amazing” thing I’m doing, and don’t call me a saint. To say these things—whether hesitantly or suspiciously or with complete honesty--is to show a deep and profound disrespect for my future daughter, who, after all, is a human being. Like all of us, she will likely bring both grief and joy to everyone she loves. 2. Don’t say, “I hope you know what you’re getting into,” or some derivation thereof (“Do you know what you’re getting into?” “Have you thought this through?” “Are you sure you’re ready for this?” “Are you sure your heart’s not bigger than your head?”) The answer is, no, I have no idea what I’m getting myself into—but neither do you. Tomorrow you could be diagnosed with cancer or shot or hit by a bus or called upon to act in heroic ways you can’t e...

When Lawrence King, an out 8 th grader in California , was shot by Brandon McInerney, another boy in his class, my future daughter, who is also in 8 th grade, was visiting me for the first time. Larry was shot because he told the other boy he had a crush on him. The murder came after several weeks of harassment based on Larry’s sexual orientation. The week Lawrence King was shot, a group of 8 th grade girls generously agreed to meet my future daughter. They weathered her inability to look them in the eye. They were kind, made jokes, tried to make her feel at ease as best they could. S. is a strange child; she has difficulty making social connections because of the years of trauma in her life. She regularly makes off-the-wall comments. She’s a messy eater, she’s uncoordinated, she’s strange. And yet, at the end of the visit, she said, “I have to move here now. I don’t want to disappoint my new friends.” The week Lawrence King was shot, my cat Snowbee hissed at S. I had warned her tha...