Silently Quakering

This morning I finally went to a Quaker/Friends meeting nearby. Living around Philadelphia, I see their churches a lot. And being someone who has always admired the non-religious behaviors of the Amish and Mennonites I grew up around, Quakers have held a certain attraction for me. That and their focus on individual religious experience, which seems pretty Jungian, as well as their history with non-violence, breaking class barriers, and feminism, led me to finally bite and check out one of their services. And I am now a definite convert.

This was an unprogrammed service, which is what I was going for. I think of it as a second dreaming--a waking equivalent to the dreams I already analyze and write down. The hour long "service" felt like it was only twenty minutes, and when I was done I felt like I'd slept for two weeks. I've never been that refreshed in my life, and my hyper mind was able to think at a steady pace throughout the service, relaxing slightly but not too much. Focusing is the word. I've never been able to meditate in a way that blocks out thought, so this form of worship was really perfect for me. And I do mean worship, though I've spent the past 12 years or so as an atheist. Jung's equating the unconscious with God let me to prayer on my own terms, at home, which allowed for more communication within myself. The dreams increased and felt different. Taking this to a church was a logical extension. And this was the perfect church. I can see God and Christ as personal metaphors hear, instead of going through a routine of pew aerobics, wafers, guilt, and singing.

I also had a dream a year or two ago, when I was really feeling the physical pain I've described elsewhere. I drove an unknown woman (the Anima) in my car to a hospital. The hospital was a farmhouse in the middle of nowhere, and it was night. I walked into the back of the farmhouse and down a red hall. On my right were some receptionists, who couldn't see me because I was behind them. On my left I found a room with an unwelcoming woman doing paperwork. She wouldn't speak. I looked at her and then left. I went downstairs and it was the basement at my mom's house. Some friends from high school were in military uniforms. I asked them how I could get help and they told me to go through the front door. With this knowledge I went outside to return to my car. I saw a dead rabbit on the ground, an image from The Wicker Man. The rabbit is said to contain the soul of a dead girl, living on in nature. I saw the Anima by the car, and she was on a laptop typing to friends by the side of the road. I knew she was fine, because I'd been told how to get help. As I walked across the grass I got the feeling that something important would happen, so I turned to my right. Behind the farmhouse, in an overgrown vacant lot, appeared a green glowing Quaker's ghost. He told me to not worry about the pleasures of the body. He gave me a lecture about how I was viewing myself in the wrong way. This is when I realized my trauma was psychological, and not physical in origin. The line about going through the front door also meant that I had to face my issues head on. Over time, as I learned to admit fears when I felt anxious, instead of burying them, my issues started to fade. And now I've found myself at a Quaker church, sort of taking the steps outlined symbolically in the dream. I didn't realize it until I drove home from the service. But it comforts me now.

Blindfold

The end of the weekend and vacations is always pretty bittersweet--sweet only because you have some great memories to linger in. I always hate that ending, though, and this was a particularly heartening Christmas.

Last weekend I drove to my mom's house to be with my brother, who flew in from Los Angeles on that Saturday after missing his original flight. We picked him up in Philadelphia, and immediately he was taken aside by some shaky security fellow who wondered why my brother was taking pictures on the flight. Like Al Qaida would be so obvious.

My brother is a hilarious person who is constantly seeking your attention. I don't say that to pass judgment, but what I mean is that he loves to engage people. I definitely have that side to me, but I can just as likely be the passive rider, daydreaming my way through a situation in search of some personal understanding, while he'll confront you with a series of voices, accents, gags, and photographs. He's never without his camera. A very creative guy who needs a huge easel.

I could describe the fun we had with friends or certain outtings, but the real pleasure of the week was in catching up. It was the sharing. I hadn't seen my brother for a year, and with him as well as the family it was just blissful to exist side by side. I've always had a lot of trouble opening up with my family, or just feeling comfortable in a casual way, because growing up there was such little communication. This holiday I felt comfortable with them and felt the solidarity that they probably feel. As much as I enjoy the presents I got, or the great food my sister prepared, it was sitting in the hot tub with my brother until my hair froze, talking about life, that makes me feel sad and fortunate now. It's my dog's hair on my winter coat, and the fact that I forgot it, meaning it's an excuse to visit the family home. It's my mom's pancakes, my dad's obsession with Fox News, the way the water runs down our driveway from the field across the street and freezes at night, making it difficult to leave. I really love that stuff. Those are the things that make my eyes well up, which is something that surprises me. The last time that happened regularly was when I was with an ex. We would cry a lot together, in a happy or bittersweet way, parting. She was the person who first allowed me to really open up. And she introduced me to tea, an obsession these days, shared with my brother often this week. So it's fitting in several ways that I've had watery eyes all day.

Despite all of the alienation, frustration, anger, and joy I've felt from my family, I don't think I've ever emoted like this. I enjoy it. It makes me feel closer to them and want to be closer to them. And it reminds me, again, of how useless so many of our jobs are. Why do we settle for making others wealthy when we'd rather share and function together? Wouldn't it be more fulfilling to farm and cook among your loved ones than sit in a chair that will ruin your back, while typing until your fingers are ruined and looking at a computer that strips your eyes of their functionality?

I miss my dog snoring and my brother's robe, while we watch movies at night. The most banal, familiar poetry. It is beautiful. In a way, it makes me want to blindfold myself to anything else, to live in those memories, but I know I can't. I'll create new, great memories with these people and find ways to be closer to them, as well. So the bittersweet feeling is more a reason to do than to dwell.

Valley Forge

Yesterday I went to Valley Forge, a place which has a strong personal, almost sentimental tie for me. It's been years since I've been there, but I feel a certain connection to landmarks of early American history. They are nostalgic for me not because of my own memories, but because of what they are. Even the ones I'm visiting for the first time feel nostalgic, and I mean that in the sense that they're familiar. You know you are walking on special land where people have truly interacted with the earth and not just built over it, just as a walk through the woods conjures up "memories" of everyone from the dinosaurs to the Native Americans. I never get this sense of place and history in an urban area.

Unfortunately routes 76, 422, and some smaller roads running through the park are fairly visible and audible. In the drizzle and mist you could also see the lights from surrounding hotels and the buildings around the King of Prussia Mall. Fortunately, for me, immersion into the woods was pretty easy. At Valley Forge the deer are abundant, the colors pour off the tress in the rain, and--maybe most inspiring--various travelers are enjoying their place there. There is a connection without any interaction between people. Once you (literally) turn your back on the city starting behind you, you're already in this other world which has a sense of oneness.

Often I dream about having to make important decisions in snowy weather. This is something I connect back to Valley Forge. Early American history always seems to happen in autumn or winter in my mind--despite the 4th of July--due to the hard winter at Valley Forge and Thanksgiving being a fall holiday. Being there yesterday I had no decisions to make, but I did feel a certain completeness as I crossed through moist fields with deer staring; rounded the lookout ridge on a disappearing trail given over to wet leaves; and generally found myself traveling down more and more closed off roads until only the woods seemed to remain. I walked until my leg felt broken.