Consenting to Pain

“Did you ever say yes to a pleasure? Oh my friends, then you also said yes to all pain. All things are linked, entwined, in love with one another.”

― Friedrich Nietzsche

I meditated on this Nietzsche quote as I sat on my yoga mat the other morning. I found it while flicking almost mindlessly through the goodies on my tumblr feed. It stopped me suddenly. 

I say yes to pleasure all the time: loving someone, investing in a relationship, arranging succulents, writing poetry, journaling, long talks, getting excited about simple pleasures. I consent to beauty and pleasure. I was, however, struggling with pain when it presented itself in my life. An unmet expectation, miscommunication, a change of plans, feeling unloved. I had not consented to this pain. I wanted vulnerability and deep relationship without the pain that inevitably came with them. 

As I sat on my yoga mat, breathing deeply, letting the sunlight flicker through the windows, I decided to consent to pain, to embrace the pain that comes with pleasure. I want to feel deeply, love deeply, live deeply. I can only do that if I know I will be hurt and consent to the pain I will feel if I decide to invest my time and love into someone/something. I will be hurt and disappointed, but I will not die. I will continue to love deeply and intentionally and be hurt in the process. I think it's worth it. 

That Small Voice

Whether you turn to the right or to the left, your ears will hear a voice behind you, saying, "This is the way; walk in it."-Isaiah 30:21

Over the past few years I have chosen to become aware of my first formation, the habits, traits, and beliefs that were instilled in me as a child and throughout very formative teenage years. As I have become more aware of myself, peeling away layer after layer of ideas that were handed to me instead of manifested on my own accord, I have been able to listen to my intuition, that voice inside me that points the way, the way that leads to freedom and awareness.

This is the voice that comforts when I am afraid, leads when I am lost, reminds me of my worth and value when I question, proposes visions for the future, and nudges me ever so gently to love and accept myself in the midst of hardship. 

This is the voice that led me to India, to Mission Year, to intentional community in Phoenix, and to all the “chance” encounters of my life. This is the voice that encourages me to seek and question, to accept that which resonates with my own soul, to listen and sit with people in their struggles.

Since returning from Houston at the end of July and moving into community with two friends I met in some of those aforementioned “chance” encounters, I have struggled to find the next step. The vision of beloved community has led me through the last two years of my life, propelling me always to the next step, the next encounter.

Now that I’m here, living in community, I’m struggling to figure out the direction. What do I do now? What do I get involved in? What is that voice telling me?

Sometimes that voice is a bit quiet, a bit harder to hear through the thundering thoughts and seemingly overwhelming life circumstances. Yet I know it’s there, nestled within me somewhere, always present, always alive, ready to lead me through the questions, the heartache, the depression, and the fog.

“God remained elusive, but a radiance presented itself every day. Inside the radiance a voice whispered, ‘I am here.’” – Deepak Chopra

On a less philosophical note, living with Emily and Justin has brought new insights and challenges as we navigate one another’s personalities, preferences, habits, lifestyles, and love languages. We have had late nights of conversation about our own worth and value, how our childhoods have hindered us or freed us to be our true selves, and hilarious stories of growing up.

We have made sure to intentionally set aside time to share life and meals with one another, eating dinner together four days a week, one of those days being our hospitality night where we invite friends and neighbors to share dinner with us. We have worked out a schedule where we have meetings on Monday nights to discuss the week and any concerns we have. On Wednesdays we work through some sort of curriculum to better understand ourselves, each other, and the world. On Fridays Emily and I usually hang out and have some girl time, which lately has meant going to panel discussion for social justice concerns such as the treatment of LGBT immigrant detainees. Sunday is our hospitality night and the day we go grocery shopping for the week. We’ve got ourselves into a pretty good routine, which is sometimes thrown off by neighborhood potlucks or other events that we work around.

We are seeking to love one another intentionally, fully. We are seeking direction for our own lives and how we fit into the world. We may not be doing it perfectly, but we’re doing it. 

Rocking Chair Musings

There is a rocking chair at one of the houses where I work. I've never sat in it because it just didn't seem inviting. Until today. I settled into that chair with a cup of tea and a short to-do list and lulled myself into thought.

"A map can tell me how to find a place I have not seen but have often imagined. When I get there, following the map faithfully, the place is not the place of my imagination. Maps, growing ever more real, are much less true." - Jeanette Winterson from Sexing the Cherry 

I've stopped looking at maps. I'm more interested in listening to the compass of my spirit and then walking in the general direction she motions. She lovingly tugs when the way is not clear and the path uncertain. She reminds me to be patient and wait when I am eager and anxious. She reminds me of my passion and vision when too many thoughts and to-dos cloud my mind.

She leans in and tells me it's ok to be vulnerable. It's ok to be seen as incapable and weak. It's ok to let people in to those deep caves where my fear and insecurity dwell.

Community is only cultivated through vulnerability. If I truly love people, I will be vulnerable and real.

To be fully human is to feel and to share and walk and sit and laugh with others through their journeys.

I choose to be fully human. 

Handstands and Somersaults

I woke up at 3am to my dog panting and salivating on me. The thunder and lightning crashing outside ignited his anxiety, keeping us both from sleep. I slid out of bed and traipsed across the cold tile floor to where the rain beat sideways on the back patio. Mojo looked at me hesitantly, still hyperventilating, as I opened the back door and stepped into the storm.

When we woke up the next day, we looked outside at the flooded yard, streets, and park. Then Justin, Mojo, and I decided to go play. Handstands, somersaults, bodysurfing, and yoga in our own natural lake. This is the stuff laughter is made of.

Life Interrupted

Community was a disruption to my life.

I have had a tendency to see people, events, and circumstances as interruptions to my regularly scheduled life. An unexpected phone call when I'm running late, a blown tire when I am out of money, a needed conversation when I'm still angry, a change in the schedule when I've already planned it all out.

Living in Houston in intentional community helped me to discover that those people, events, and circumstances I saw as interruptions to life were actually LIFE itself happening. They weren't a sideshow or a disruption. They were life. They were the present moment happening. Once I was able to change my perception and expectation about time and people, I wasn't so angry when those unexpected things happened. In fact, I started embracing those "interruptions" as a reminder that life is happening and I had better pay attention to what is right in front of me.

I could see this house moving process as an interruption to what my life could be once I'm settled into a cozy living room that has already been arranged to my liking with people I'm already comfortable with. I could see these night shifts and new job as temporary until something better comes along. I could see conversations with new housemates as a nuisance because they just don't get me yet.

But if I saw those things in that way I'd lose out on the life that is trying to present itself to me through these people and circumstances. The process of moving out of my childhood home and into a house of my own is a process I need to be aware of and invested in. Every box unpacked, every cupboard filled, every piece of furniture rearranged is life happening. It is what is right now. I work nights and am exhausted. But I get to hang out with wonderful people who like to play air guitar with me in the kitchen and have dinner parties on the back patio during monsoons. It is the job that was opened up to me and I can find the beauty in it. I want to be invested in the getting-to-know-you process because that is the only way we can really know and be known. The only way to love people is to get to know people for who they truly are and sit or walk with them in it, all the light and dark and pain and passion and intensity and anger and rough edges and confusion. And that only happens through doing life with others. If I saw people as an interruption, I'd never really know what it is to love them.

This new house is a metaphor, as are most things in my life. New, open space providing infinite possibilities for community and relationship. There are boxes to still be unpacked, emotions to be unpacked, thoughts to be sifted through. There are conversations to have, tears to cry, stories to share, laughter to feel, and love to be shown.

Hope. There is always hope.

Let's Begin Again

I picked up my newest housemate from the airport on Monday after his 13 hour flight from Australia. Justin and I met two years ago while working in Kolkata with Mother Teresa's Missionaries of Charity and have kept in contact for the last two years, talking about community. I invited him to live in community with me and Emily in Phoenix, and he decided that sounded like a good idea!

We've spent the past few days getting to know one another as a community, eating pizza, packing boxes, hiking, teaching Justin how to drive on the right side of the road...

We're preparing to move into our new community house on Monday! Prayers, love, and good vibes appreciated! 

Sleepless

I write this blog from a state of sleepless delirium, as most of my moments seem to be lately.

The past week has been a blur of sleepless overnight shifts, monsoon floods, dark clouds from bus windows, lively community conversations with Emily, packing more boxes of more stuff, and anticipating the arrival of our newest community member, Justin, coming in from Australia tomorrow.

Old Bananas. New Job.

I watched the bananas on the counter lose their yellow luster, overcome by brown age. As I was thinking of throwing them away, I remembered the banana bread my housemates Rediet and Kira would make in our apartment in Houston. Why waste old bananas when  I could throw some sugar and egg into a bowl and make something delicious? I thought of communal meals, of simple living, of using all available resources and not wasting anything. I thought of Kira, and Red, and Taylor, and Heather, and Charlie. I thought of them all and loved them intensely as the bread rose and filled the house with the scent of warm bananas.

Life without their presence has been different, challenging in many ways. 

I've been invited into new ways of experiencing community and dialogue. 

On Monday I started my new job as a Direct Care Worker at Goldensun Peace Ministries, a community of people who work to empower adults who are differentially abled. I basically get to hang out with my new neighbors all evening, conversing, playing games, making meals, engaging in conflict resolution, and building relationships. Community. 

The packing process continues as I await my new community member's arrival. Only ten days until he arrives and only seventeen days until we move into our community house! Meanwhile I'm getting the bus system down. 

My Messy True Self

Be ok with who you are, because that may be the only person you get to be.

- Paraphrased from the movie "Tiny"

Last night Emily and I hung out in our friend's 160 sq. ft. tiny home before watching the documentary "Tiny" and talking with the makers of the film. The film documents Christopher Smith and his girlfriend as they create a tiny home and question what "home" means and what values they want to live into.

"Home is never something we build alone," he says. 

During the last year of my life in Houston I created a home with six others, delving into shared life, shared meals, shared space, and shared visions. The only reason Houston became home was because of the people who helped make it home.

Since leaving that community I have discovered a whole lot about myself and the changes that have taken place within me, several of which I didn't even realize until these last few days. 

I started filling my days with meetings and friends, getting in my car to jump from one place to the next on my time, on my schedule, on my own. This thing that I thought I missed so badly while I was in Houston--the ability to go where I want, when I want, as fast as I want--suddenly felt foreign. I crave a slower pace. I crave going places with people. I decided to take the bus, and as soon as I sat down in those familiar double seats, I felt at home. This was familiar. This was what I actually wanted.

I started going through my things, glancing over all the pieces of memorabilia from my history: the notes from high school, car part receipts from several years ago, clothes that had sat at the bottom of my drawers because of their sentimental value, shoes I thought I might wear someday, knickknacks and trinkets that just took up space. I looked at all these things and realized I didn't need them anymore. They had served my life for a purpose, but they no longer served my life now. I took pictures of the things that meant something, then threw/gave it all away. 

I'm wriggling out of the old skin and letting it fall to the side. I've no need of it anymore. 

I value people. I value diversity. I value inclusion. I value the freedom that comes from making intentional choices to slow down.  I value simplicity. I value late night drowsy conversations with housemates. I value spending time with people. I can let go of the things. 

Taking the bus keeps me from filling my schedule too quickly, reminding me to be intentional with my time. 

Moving into intentional community with my friends Emily and Justin allows me to live consciously, continuing to seek my true self, true inclusion, dialogue, and diversity with other people who are seeking those same things.

I feel new. Recreated.

This last year has been a year of letting go and making space. The people I've lived with have helped peel away layer after false layer, helping me to let go of the boxes, the impossible standards, the control, and the perfection. They helped me embrace my messy true self, with all the beauty and darkness that entails.

This next season is going to be so beautiful. 

You Say Goodbye, and I Say Hello

We spent a few days on the beach, reflecting on the last year of our lives in intentional community, the hardships, the growth, the pain, and the relationships. We told each other a bunch of beautiful, true things and were given space to listen to ourselves and to one another. We also spent a lot of time in the ocean...

Our team then headed home to Lyons Avenue to move all our furniture downstairs, creating an empty void in a space we once occupied so well. Taylor left with her mom. The rest of us stayed up all night watching (or sleeping through) movies on the only furniture we had left: two mattresses we made into couches. 

The next day we said goodbye to Heather, then Charlie, then Red and I parted ways. 

The transition to Phoenix was actually a beautiful, relatively smooth process for me. 

My brother greeted me at the airport and took me out for a margarita. Then I was able to go home and sit in my room with Mojo, Emily, my brother Mark and my sister Amanda, and it felt so much like community that I knew everything was going to be alright. 

The monsoons came over the next few days, and I cuddled with my dog and went on a walk through this familiar neighborhood, this place I will be leaving soon. 

Emily and I will be moving out on September 1st into our new community home. I am cleaning my room, simplifying, saying goodbye to old pieces of nostalgia, ready to start a new season of my life.