I’ve been hearing the “keep a stiff upper lip” recommendation more often recently, but seem to fall so short in making it happen. I decided to look up this saying's origins online, which are sometimes attributed to the Brits. But I found it also had firm literary and semantic roots in this country during the 1800’s.
Back in the day, that theoretical/representative upper lip might even have been moustache-topped, and therefore would be quick to substantiate any doubts of even slight emotional quivering. Keeping a stiff upper lip had everything to do with APPEARING courageous and resolute in the face of adversity; APPEARING stoic; APPEARING to show no weakness or negativity.
APPEARING upbeat. As if life’s one big party-of-a-bash, if we only pretend that it is. As if we can convince those around us that we’re above pain; as if we can convince them that they should be as well. As if by manipulating our emotions and lying to each other we can make things better than they are.
By assuming this kind of masked control, we also throw redemptive suffering back in Christ’s face; we ignore co-suffering with Him - a travesty. We deny Him as our Source when we deny our need for Him in the first place (i.e. we can handle this all by ourselves, thank you very much).
My paraphrase of “keep a stiff upper lip” etymology goes something like this: when faint of heart and struggling to make sense of things inwardly, do everything you can to present an opposite impression on the outside.
I just re-read that sentence, and it left me gritting my teeth. I’m not sure how I got to be so gritty-and-grindy, but I am easily frustrated by a clinical and right-minded approach to life. Narrow black-and-whiteness drives me crazy, even (maybe especially) when I practice it myself in an attempt at protective insulation. Truth is, I desperately want to be free to live a heart-level life; I want others to know this same gut-level freedom in my presence without needing to apologize. This is how we enlarge each other.
Conversely, the stiff upper lip philosophy is all about minimizing. I become smaller, and so do you.
First, keeping a stiff upper lip bottles me up like a pressure cooker until the emotional toxins seep into (and take over) my whole being. After too many days in the cooker I end up shrunken, diminished, burned, dead.
Second, when those around me keep a stiff upper lip, they often start resembling hardened, fossilized cardboard rocks or distanced islands. They may be colorfully glazed on the outside with ceramic-kiln-fired beauty, but hard as hard can be. They also may congregate loosely with other similar ceramic-people to LOOK LIKE community, but it is only a façade. We both lose. What a shame.
I should clarify. I don’t believe the goal is to become blubbering idiots who regurgitate each little pain and sorrow over every unsuspecting soul who comes along, until life becomes one big wretched, smelly pot of vomit – not at all. I simply believe in the value of sharing the good and the bad, the easy and the hard, the sorrows and the joys, the wounds and the strengths, the very sweet and the very bitter and everything in-between with our closest compatriots in this life, especially those who share a common faith in the One who inspires our paths in this life and therefore can make sense of it all. And yet obviously not everyone is of this same mind-set. I need to accept and respect that.
When British soldiers of old marched into battle, they were trained to remain steady and serene in the face - chipper looking, even jovial - and to always wear that stiff upper lip. Another expression of the time was “chin up,” meaning discouragement (displayed via a tucked chin) was simply not allowed, not on the surface, anyway. No doubt those red coats felt terror when marching onto the battlefield, but woe unto them if they ever admitted it.
Surely there’s a halfway meeting point between the stiff upper lip and blubbering idiocy: honesty overlaid with hope, and framed with faith in God.
Another sub-topic under the stiff lip heading has to do with the fixer-upper and the fix-ee. Self-appointed fixers often wear stiff upper lips. They assume they know more than the poor, innocent, blubbery fix-ees, and therefore qualify as Master Fixers. In reality, we’re all on this blue marble together, and none of us is able to figure out our own complexities, let alone anyone else’s. And yet we continue to fix each other under the guise of helping, even though we can clearly see that kind of help often isn’t help at all. Still, the stiff upper lip reigns when compassion is actually the need. We’d do well to take a good, long look at what it means to let the upper lip quiver and put our focus on coming alongside and SERVING each other.
Friday, July 31, 2009
Thursday, July 30, 2009
Kabbalah Kairos
I’m re-reading “My Grandfather’s Blessings” by Rachel Naomi Remen, MD – something I vaguely remember skim-reading years ago, but recently resurfaced as a gift from a friend and so deserved another, more thorough read. Rachel talks openly about mysterious and yet critical things: the holiness of created life, the potential for participating in human wholeness and healing (compassion), and the necessity of growing toward honest authenticity.
A fuzzy half-moon hung in the sky last night, just outside the window facing the lake. I sat with all the lights turned off for a long time just watching it, sitting alone in the inky dark, letting myself be spellbound by the simplicity of heavenly grandeur I too often take for granted. As I sunk into the stillness and utter blackness, I also felt myself magnetically drawn by the halved orb, as if pulled up and away from commotion, pain, uncertainty, misunderstanding, and weariness. This seemed to fit with a quote I’d read earlier from the introduction of Rachel’s book:
“My grandfather was a scholar of the Kabbalah, the mystical teachings of Judiasm….According to the Kabbalah, at some point in the beginning of things, the Holy was broken up into countless sparks, which were scattered throughout the universe. There is a god spark…in everything, a sort of diaspora (Greek for “scattering”) of goodness. God’s immanent presence among us is encountered daily in the most simple, humble, and ordinary ways. The Kabbalah teaches that the Holy may speak to you from its many hidden places at any time. The world may whisper it in your ear, or the spark of God in you may whisper in your heart…”
The moon reassured me. Its friendly face in the sky seemed trustworthy, leading me back to old childhood memories of myself on similarly enchanted nights. When I was around 8 or 10 years old I often sat on the pier by myself at night, a worshipful little girl with a flashlight in hand, watching the spiders spin their creative webs (works of art) in the corners of the cross-bars. In those days I didn’t automatically feel sorrow about living a lonely life. I’d listen to the bull-frogs ga-rumph-ing from the swamp and look for shooting stars. It was heavenly, and I was part of that heavenliness.
As I watched the moon last night, I wanted to cling once again to the simple pleasure, the simple connection. Simple insights of a simple God-Kairos-moment in time were right there, if I cared to notice.
This morning that same sky reveals calmness again: cottony sheets of clouds with little torn spots that reveal wild blue yonder behind. I feel small in comparison, and yet in a significant (if simple) way. At the same time, the tinnitus screams for attention inside my head, always wanting to be first, always wanting to distract and disable me. My finger, which I neglected to splint last night so it could rest, aches. And the Psalmist gives words to my heart:
“Where can I go from your Spirit?
Where can I flee from your presence?
If I go up to the heavens, you are there;
If I make my bed in the depths, you are there.
If I rise on the wings of the dawn,
If I settle on the far side of the sea,
Even there your hand will guide me,
Your right had will hold me fast.
If I say, “Surely the darkness will hide me and the light become night around me,”
Even the darkness will not be dark to you;
The night will shine like the day,
For darkness is as light to you.
For you created my inmost being;
You knit me together in my mother’s womb.
I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
Your works are wonderful,
I know that full well.” Psalm 139:7-14
A fuzzy half-moon hung in the sky last night, just outside the window facing the lake. I sat with all the lights turned off for a long time just watching it, sitting alone in the inky dark, letting myself be spellbound by the simplicity of heavenly grandeur I too often take for granted. As I sunk into the stillness and utter blackness, I also felt myself magnetically drawn by the halved orb, as if pulled up and away from commotion, pain, uncertainty, misunderstanding, and weariness. This seemed to fit with a quote I’d read earlier from the introduction of Rachel’s book:
“My grandfather was a scholar of the Kabbalah, the mystical teachings of Judiasm….According to the Kabbalah, at some point in the beginning of things, the Holy was broken up into countless sparks, which were scattered throughout the universe. There is a god spark…in everything, a sort of diaspora (Greek for “scattering”) of goodness. God’s immanent presence among us is encountered daily in the most simple, humble, and ordinary ways. The Kabbalah teaches that the Holy may speak to you from its many hidden places at any time. The world may whisper it in your ear, or the spark of God in you may whisper in your heart…”
The moon reassured me. Its friendly face in the sky seemed trustworthy, leading me back to old childhood memories of myself on similarly enchanted nights. When I was around 8 or 10 years old I often sat on the pier by myself at night, a worshipful little girl with a flashlight in hand, watching the spiders spin their creative webs (works of art) in the corners of the cross-bars. In those days I didn’t automatically feel sorrow about living a lonely life. I’d listen to the bull-frogs ga-rumph-ing from the swamp and look for shooting stars. It was heavenly, and I was part of that heavenliness.
As I watched the moon last night, I wanted to cling once again to the simple pleasure, the simple connection. Simple insights of a simple God-Kairos-moment in time were right there, if I cared to notice.
This morning that same sky reveals calmness again: cottony sheets of clouds with little torn spots that reveal wild blue yonder behind. I feel small in comparison, and yet in a significant (if simple) way. At the same time, the tinnitus screams for attention inside my head, always wanting to be first, always wanting to distract and disable me. My finger, which I neglected to splint last night so it could rest, aches. And the Psalmist gives words to my heart:
“Where can I go from your Spirit?
Where can I flee from your presence?
If I go up to the heavens, you are there;
If I make my bed in the depths, you are there.
If I rise on the wings of the dawn,
If I settle on the far side of the sea,
Even there your hand will guide me,
Your right had will hold me fast.
If I say, “Surely the darkness will hide me and the light become night around me,”
Even the darkness will not be dark to you;
The night will shine like the day,
For darkness is as light to you.
For you created my inmost being;
You knit me together in my mother’s womb.
I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made;
Your works are wonderful,
I know that full well.” Psalm 139:7-14
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Tonic Time
As I sit here sipping my sparkle-the-taste-buds-morning-wake-up-tonic, I think maybe it’s time to come clean with my (limited) blog readership. I’m into another phase of nutritional health-food-nuttiness-gone-radical.
Only not really. Hippocrates wasn’t radical in a stupid-goon-like-way, but rather he was the brilliant father of medicine, and two foods (those in my spotlight) were his primary tools of healing. The Egyptians and Babylonians and other historical cultures also used them as effective tonics. People today who continue to know the truth (despite attempts by pharmaceuticals to cover it up) still benefit.
Am I talking about seaweed (as good as it is for you) or some other way-way-bizarre, face-puckering food? Nope. Just good old “normal” organic apple cider vinegar and raw honey.
The list of benefits is amazingly long, but the bottom line is that these maintain the body’s acid-alkaline balance. We Westernized folks are often too acid due to our yuckola eating habits (and very off-track from the prescribed Garden of Eden menu), and acidity is foundational to setting the stage for many chronic diseases.
I’ve been trying to get into a swing of taking the prescribed doses (8 oz. water + 2 tsp. vinegar + 1 tsp. honey, three times a day) for my emerging arthritis. Many arthritic people have found relief and/or have slowed or halted the progression of the disease. It would be just a little bit earth-shattering-and-life-altering if this could help me remediate mine. And in the way-way back of my mind, I wonder if it could affect tinnitus as well??
I also add a teeny scoop of stevia to the mix, and the result is something like sweet-sour hard apple cider. Ahhhhh. Invigorating.
As the old Maxwell House commercial used to say, “Good to the last drop.” Now, let the day begin.
Only not really. Hippocrates wasn’t radical in a stupid-goon-like-way, but rather he was the brilliant father of medicine, and two foods (those in my spotlight) were his primary tools of healing. The Egyptians and Babylonians and other historical cultures also used them as effective tonics. People today who continue to know the truth (despite attempts by pharmaceuticals to cover it up) still benefit.
Am I talking about seaweed (as good as it is for you) or some other way-way-bizarre, face-puckering food? Nope. Just good old “normal” organic apple cider vinegar and raw honey.
The list of benefits is amazingly long, but the bottom line is that these maintain the body’s acid-alkaline balance. We Westernized folks are often too acid due to our yuckola eating habits (and very off-track from the prescribed Garden of Eden menu), and acidity is foundational to setting the stage for many chronic diseases.
I’ve been trying to get into a swing of taking the prescribed doses (8 oz. water + 2 tsp. vinegar + 1 tsp. honey, three times a day) for my emerging arthritis. Many arthritic people have found relief and/or have slowed or halted the progression of the disease. It would be just a little bit earth-shattering-and-life-altering if this could help me remediate mine. And in the way-way back of my mind, I wonder if it could affect tinnitus as well??
I also add a teeny scoop of stevia to the mix, and the result is something like sweet-sour hard apple cider. Ahhhhh. Invigorating.
As the old Maxwell House commercial used to say, “Good to the last drop.” Now, let the day begin.
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
The Hope Shrine
In the 80’s and 90’s I started receiving small and unexpected gifts from various people: little tangible icons of hope; remembrances of ongoing healing as well as encouragements to be creative and expressive and trust in God’s provisions.
One young friend continued to shower me with butterflies in various forms as a symbol of freedom and personal fulfillment. I still have her blown-glass butterfly Christmas ornament and mock-stained-glass mini desk lamp with a butterfly motif. After my thyroidectomy, several friends gave me a fruit basket of three interlocking hearts filled with fresh fruit – reminders of the fruit of the spirit. That basket still hangs in my Buck Creek kitchen. Still another gave me hopeful gifts of service, taking time to make my world a little more sane or beautiful or cheerful.
The tradition (even though many of these people never knew each other) continues. Not long ago a friend gave me a hand-crafted lighthouse, representing the beacon of Light to the whole world, Jesus.
I decided to display a few of these things, some of the smaller ones, on a shelf underneath a mirror in our Michigan bedroom. As you can see in the picture (maybe, although I know it’s small), there’s a replica of a bird nest full of eggs (new life), a hand-sewn miniature teddy bear (comfort), the word “hope” fashioned from wood (solid, unmistakable hope), an angel of healing (who is caring for an injured bird), an angel of hope (who is carrying a lantern to light the way), and my mother’s old pitcher full of a Bic pen bouquet (to remind me to follow my writing passion). The Bic pen bouquet is the most recent, a gift on my 60th birthday.
It is obvious to me that God continues to orchestrate all of this, guiding other people to share His hope. He is also giving me eyes to see the process for what it is – active mercy.
Monday, July 27, 2009
Blowing Up the Dam
Ooooookaaaaaay (I can almost hear you say it, with that hint of manufactured sarcasm) – sure, that sounds like fun. Let’s blow up the dam! And pretend we’re all thirteen, and male, and running in a pack. After that we can throw rocks at train cars and shoot stray cats with b-b guns.
Just calm down. All you have to do is hang with me for a minute and be at least minimally willing to think metaphorically. (Oh boy, now I KNOW you’re really on board.)
Here goes.
It seems to me we sometimes build figurative dams as massive as the Hoover to try and hold at bay the chipped mosaic pieces of our lives – misshapen brokenness in the form of fear, apathy, frustration, misunderstanding, guilt, and a million other things – I’m sure you know what they are. Although this dam is supposed to allow love, courage, strength, and faith in God to trickle through and continue on course via a peaceful stream, it always has some sort chronic deferred maintenance going on as well, and that means LEAKS. Try as we might, the sludge ends up mixing with the pure stuff, and life gets pretty muddy.
The whole idea of a dam is actually ridiculous, and yet we think it’s necessary to do SOMETHING in order to contain the potential for flooding when intense, raging, out-of-control currents threaten to take over. So, we become guarded, defensive, and fake to avoid personal disaster, social ostracism, and lawlessness.
Most of the time we build the dam unconsciously, over years, much like a pyramid builder who commits his whole life to the project. We grit our teeth and pretend to accept the hard labor in the sweltering sun, and the resulting limitation as opportunities pass us by. We also choose to ignore the assorted broken pieces that slish-slosh and grate together behind the dam, just waiting for a new weak spot to crack open so they can pour through and raze our interior countryside.
Socially we act like the dam isn’t even there, and its cruddy accumulation is non-existent. We focus instead on deceiving ourselves, and pointing others to the little bitty stream of reasonably pure flow (tainted with the expected leakage from cracks, of course). In doing so we convince ourselves, and maybe mostly everyone else, that we’re pretty much okay, or at least as okay as is possible in a fallen world. We try to keep the messiness hidden and secretive.
I suppose the dam looks like a positive and necessary thing. But it’s not – not in the presence of Mercy and Grace. I also can’t help but wonder about the matter of accumulation, and so much toxic crud? Surely a better alternative is mutual transparency and authenticity, and shared accountability before God. But…first the dam has to come out.
Anybody got a few sticks of dynamite…and a match?
Just calm down. All you have to do is hang with me for a minute and be at least minimally willing to think metaphorically. (Oh boy, now I KNOW you’re really on board.)
Here goes.
It seems to me we sometimes build figurative dams as massive as the Hoover to try and hold at bay the chipped mosaic pieces of our lives – misshapen brokenness in the form of fear, apathy, frustration, misunderstanding, guilt, and a million other things – I’m sure you know what they are. Although this dam is supposed to allow love, courage, strength, and faith in God to trickle through and continue on course via a peaceful stream, it always has some sort chronic deferred maintenance going on as well, and that means LEAKS. Try as we might, the sludge ends up mixing with the pure stuff, and life gets pretty muddy.
The whole idea of a dam is actually ridiculous, and yet we think it’s necessary to do SOMETHING in order to contain the potential for flooding when intense, raging, out-of-control currents threaten to take over. So, we become guarded, defensive, and fake to avoid personal disaster, social ostracism, and lawlessness.
Most of the time we build the dam unconsciously, over years, much like a pyramid builder who commits his whole life to the project. We grit our teeth and pretend to accept the hard labor in the sweltering sun, and the resulting limitation as opportunities pass us by. We also choose to ignore the assorted broken pieces that slish-slosh and grate together behind the dam, just waiting for a new weak spot to crack open so they can pour through and raze our interior countryside.
Socially we act like the dam isn’t even there, and its cruddy accumulation is non-existent. We focus instead on deceiving ourselves, and pointing others to the little bitty stream of reasonably pure flow (tainted with the expected leakage from cracks, of course). In doing so we convince ourselves, and maybe mostly everyone else, that we’re pretty much okay, or at least as okay as is possible in a fallen world. We try to keep the messiness hidden and secretive.
I suppose the dam looks like a positive and necessary thing. But it’s not – not in the presence of Mercy and Grace. I also can’t help but wonder about the matter of accumulation, and so much toxic crud? Surely a better alternative is mutual transparency and authenticity, and shared accountability before God. But…first the dam has to come out.
Anybody got a few sticks of dynamite…and a match?
Sunday, July 26, 2009
On Mercy...and Breathing...
Today I received my complementary copy of Jean Watson’s latest CD, produced in (whoop-do-doo!) NASHVILLE! AND, right inside the jacket I can see my name as a co-author of lyrics for one of the songs.
This could/should be a euphoric thing, or at least something that makes my heart do a little extra pitter-pat. But honestly, while I am gratified, honored, and thrilled to be “in print” in this way (at least as a contributing partial-author), the public recognition is nothing - truly, NOTHING - compared to the thrill of the creative act itself. The real pay-off occurred the night the original, unedited poem/lyrics were composed. The joy came from the inspiration, and the actual process of writing. Seriously.
Why? Maybe because God is not a fanfare kind of God. We don’t REALLY find fulfillment when our names are shouted from the rooftops of achievement. Rather, the transformation is an inner thing. It happens when He comes in the quiet one-on-one relational times, the inspired times, the modest and humble moments when His mercy becomes, quite literally, everything.
Such was that evening last August when Mercy and I sat at my computer, and something called “Moon Trail” showed up – something that later evolved through collaboration with Jean’s Nashville producer, Don Koch, to become a song called “Outstretched Wing.”
In a letter to a writer who asked, “Why does one write?”, Anais Nin said:
“Why one writes is a question I can answer easily, having so often asked it of myself. I believe one writes because one has to create a world in which one can live…
“We also write to heighten our own awareness of life, we write to lure and enchant and console others…
We write to taste life twice, in the moment, and in retrospection…
“We write to be able to transcend our life, to reach beyond it. We write to teach ourselves to speak with others, to record the journey into the labyrinth, we write to expand our world, when we feel strangled, constricted, lonely…
When I don’t write I feel my world shrinking; I feel I am in a prison. I feel I lose my fire, my color. It should be a necessity, as the sea needs to heave. I call it breathing.”
I would add to the above quote the following observation:
We write to complete ourselves, or rather to allow Mercy to complete us by inspiring our hearts and minds and souls. We write to represent Him, in some very small way, which encourages us (and hopefully those who read our outpourings) to wait on Him – to wait for more, always more. For Mercy has no bounds, only MORE.
Such was my experience that night last August. I was just breathing, as Anais Nin says, and Mercy showed up. The end result (after more collaborative “breathing”) ended up in Nashville, and will be heard by Jean’s fans as she ministers to the truth of the gospel here in Michigan, and all over Great Britain (she’s on the charts there) and beyond. The name of her album? "Everything Can Change." Praise be to the God of Mercy!
This could/should be a euphoric thing, or at least something that makes my heart do a little extra pitter-pat. But honestly, while I am gratified, honored, and thrilled to be “in print” in this way (at least as a contributing partial-author), the public recognition is nothing - truly, NOTHING - compared to the thrill of the creative act itself. The real pay-off occurred the night the original, unedited poem/lyrics were composed. The joy came from the inspiration, and the actual process of writing. Seriously.
Why? Maybe because God is not a fanfare kind of God. We don’t REALLY find fulfillment when our names are shouted from the rooftops of achievement. Rather, the transformation is an inner thing. It happens when He comes in the quiet one-on-one relational times, the inspired times, the modest and humble moments when His mercy becomes, quite literally, everything.
Such was that evening last August when Mercy and I sat at my computer, and something called “Moon Trail” showed up – something that later evolved through collaboration with Jean’s Nashville producer, Don Koch, to become a song called “Outstretched Wing.”
In a letter to a writer who asked, “Why does one write?”, Anais Nin said:
“Why one writes is a question I can answer easily, having so often asked it of myself. I believe one writes because one has to create a world in which one can live…
“We also write to heighten our own awareness of life, we write to lure and enchant and console others…
We write to taste life twice, in the moment, and in retrospection…
“We write to be able to transcend our life, to reach beyond it. We write to teach ourselves to speak with others, to record the journey into the labyrinth, we write to expand our world, when we feel strangled, constricted, lonely…
When I don’t write I feel my world shrinking; I feel I am in a prison. I feel I lose my fire, my color. It should be a necessity, as the sea needs to heave. I call it breathing.”
I would add to the above quote the following observation:
We write to complete ourselves, or rather to allow Mercy to complete us by inspiring our hearts and minds and souls. We write to represent Him, in some very small way, which encourages us (and hopefully those who read our outpourings) to wait on Him – to wait for more, always more. For Mercy has no bounds, only MORE.
Such was my experience that night last August. I was just breathing, as Anais Nin says, and Mercy showed up. The end result (after more collaborative “breathing”) ended up in Nashville, and will be heard by Jean’s fans as she ministers to the truth of the gospel here in Michigan, and all over Great Britain (she’s on the charts there) and beyond. The name of her album? "Everything Can Change." Praise be to the God of Mercy!
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Going Home
Whenever Fritz and I visit our native turf (Lake Maxinkuckee), we both feel the tug; the seeming necessity to stay right there where we always belonged, and still do, till death do us part. That was the case today at the family reunion. Many properties around the lake have changed, but the lake itself – well, it’s still the same old loyal friend, playmate, teacher and counselor we’ve always known.
I’m grateful we both share this sense of heritage - and also that our own lakie ("lake-ie") kids bonded with Maxinkuckee when young. How cool that today our grandkids had a taste of this special place as well.
It's humbling to look back and see more clearly the major life lessons I learned there: peace, confidence, security, trust, and most of all, hope.
I’m grateful we both share this sense of heritage - and also that our own lakie ("lake-ie") kids bonded with Maxinkuckee when young. How cool that today our grandkids had a taste of this special place as well.
It's humbling to look back and see more clearly the major life lessons I learned there: peace, confidence, security, trust, and most of all, hope.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)