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In a dream last night, we reached Bethlehem. There were pilgrims everywhere. Do you know which Inn? Are we too late? Some of us had gifts, some of us were hoping to get a gift. The vibe was happy mostly, mostly festive. It was chaotic but in a family reunion kind of way. Everybody wanted the same thing.
In the dream, I lead us up and down the busy roads. I am focused and intent; I refuse to be distracted. We will find Him – we will! But then – suddenly – I realize I’ve lost you. Somewhere in the flocking streams I lost you.
I begin to call your name. I shove through hordes of seekers to find you. Nothing else matters. For the first time since we began this journey, I am scared. What if you are gone?
I realize that finding Jesus means nothing if you are not there with me.
A minute later, I realize what this means for my search for Jesus. It wasn’t about him at all. It was about connecting with you. It was always about you. Always.
And you are gone.
1
The last post of a sustained writing project is always the hardest. The temptation to conclude is strong in us. We want to stick the landing, resolve the plot, put a big red bow on it.
But at the end of Advent, I can’t do that. Neither my psyche nor my writing are prone to finishing. They thrive on stories that are bigger than they are. They love disappearing in gospel mythologies, telling and retelling familiar tales at the fire.
Every relationship in which I share is an aspect of the One Relationship, which is that of God with Creation. I can’t compass that relationship in ways that resolve neatly, like a finely-made clock or O’Henry’s Gift of the Magi. There has to be something on the other side of language. Silence isn’t just the absence of sound.
I’m not the maker of our relationship, much less the One Relationship. When I consent to enter either fully, both enter me. I’m not “I” then, I’m “us,” with you. It’s open and open-ended, this thing of ours. It’s outside the bounds of “right/wrong,” “either/or” and even “both/and.”
It’s beyond “/”. It’s even beyond ” “.
Our relationship is a glittering star in the vast firmanent of God’s Delight. This was the light we followed; this is the light we always follow. It’s us. We’re the love.
2
In the dream, I am defeated. I cannot find you. I sink to my knees in the dirt; nobody notices. Nobody cares. It’s over. Loss and lack are all I know.
But then somebody kicks me, and then kicks me again, and when I turn to see who it is, it’s you. It was always you.
“Get off your knees,” you say, extending a hand. I want to say you’re luminous – I want to say you couldn’t be more Christ – but I don’t. I’m just happy you found me. And there has to be something on the other side of words. I take your hand. Of course I take it. What else were my own hands made for but this?
3
When I was a little boy, I fell in love a lot, and everything I loved was killed or sold or abandoned. Dogs, cats, cows, sheep, chickens, ducks, deer, trout, pheasants, grouse, bears. My best friend and first girlfriend moved to Kentucky. Shit happens.
Shit happens but also, life goes on. I learned that lesson early too. Everything died but life went on. No matter how much pain there was in this moment, in another would be joy. I didn’t like it but I couldn’t deny it.
So I kept coming back. You know what I mean? My heart would break, I’d mourn, and then . . . find somebody or something else to love again. Even a dandelion in sunlight, just so, was sufficient. I was always falling to my knees; I was always being offered a hand.
In childhood, among other things, I learned how to hope. I learned that hope was justified.
And look. I agree with Krishnamurti: hope is just the flip side of despair. It’s “/” all over again. We fear hell so we hope for Heaven. It’s a cycle, a trick of ego, and its only function is to keep us from ever seeing that we are doing this to ourselves, and that there is another way.
But also, hope was how I survived a difficult part of the journey. And it’s hard to let something go that served so well for so long.
Of course I’m scared. What did I think was going to happen here? What did you think was going to happen?
4
When I was a child I had a recurring dream of Mary. She was standing on the Charles M. Braga bridge in light rain, staring sadly at the city of Fall River, the ancestral city of both sides of my family. The mist was a shroud hiding every other body but ours. Mary’s grief was enormous; her vulnerability obvious. Somebody had to help her. I had to help her. But something invisible separated us and I was only allowed to observe. Eventually the dream stopped being a dream and became a memory. But of what exactly? And why am I telling you? You were there.
5
In the dream you take my hand and lead me – against the flowing crowd entering Bethelehem – out of Bethlehem and into the desert where it all began so long ago. I’m scared still but differently. Where are we going, I ask. But you only smile and say trust me. I will, I say. And I do. I do.
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I find myself clinging to the advent travels this morning. Last evening, while driving home in the dark, it felt more like panic. I don’t want the journey to end. Bus as you say, life goes on. I have to look at the fear and what feels like loss. It’s a familiar ache. This post feels so personal in nature and comforts me greatly to know that we are here, we are in this together, and I completely agree with you that it is about Jesus and the relationship of travelers. I would walk for miles in silence, holding hands and smiling to be in the company of those here. Where do we go from here?
Oh…the desert…yes!
Yes . . . the desert, “where it all began,” the beginning of the story, our story, all stories, to tell it all all over again, together. We are free spirits who do this, fractals forever remembering and creating the original as our own self. God points to Creation, Creation points to Itself and then becomes silent.
Which on the one hand is poetic bullshit, and thus reflective of my own unexamined fear and doubt, and yet which also manages to reflect some kernel of truth, because it makes me happy. We are traveling together no matter what. Knowing that can – if I let it, if I’m ready – dissolve the other questions. There really is only this: this this.
That said, this Advent writing has hinted always at Lent (for me, in a private quiet way) and so my mind turns to those forty days, and the fear hiding in them, and is asking, what writing – what collaboration – will suit THAT season.
~ Sean
Sean, thank you for the ultimate reminder: Shit happens but also, life goes on. Tim Green of Rattle offers this poem on Christmas Eve, apropos the pilgrimage that is ours.
https://www.rattle.com/
Sean, your last few posts have felt so vulnerably raw and achingly honest. What sweet courage, sharing your heart which, furnace on the blink or not, is anything but cold. I’ve given up on answers from the Course, from you, from every teacher or poet who’s ever comforted or inspired or challenged me. “Words don’t teach” is a hard thing for a writer and a teacher to swallow, jagged little pill that it is. I may be–likely am–deluded, but I can feel myself reaching this place where, no matter how much others’ ideas about life and truth and salvation may compel, they do not save. They do not lead me out of any perceived darkness I think I’m experiencing. Your comments about Mary reminded me of the song “Mary, Did You Know?” Of course she didn’t. None of us do, Ken Wapnick included. If we knew, we wouldn’t be having any of these conversations even though the conversations never save us. Or at least, never save me. For that, all I can do, is trust the hands that reach for mine, the arms that pull me close, the Love I am, the Love you are. The only real Star leading us home.
Thanks for sharing and being here, Dan. I think if I am reading you correctly that we are sort of saying something similar – it is the relationships that save us, because they are a space to rest, to recuperate, to recreate, to make and remake the meaning of the world. The many paths that are available for walking mean nothing if we do not share the trail.
Part of the dream imagery in this post – the part that spoke to me – was the sense of the other taking the lead. That feels like a big part of the next stage of learning and letting go for me. Less focus on the leader – and on the thought system that cherishes leaders and hierarchies – and more just finding ways to be at home in the world with others. More emphasis on friends, on holiness as inclusive of messiness, and on sharing without a lot of control.
Vulnerability matters to me. Intentional vulnerability matters. Someone told me once, nothing will heal your shame except vulnerability. You must learn how to be vulnerable, Sean. And it worked – it really did. I don’t want to just spew so much as choose carefully how to show my confusion, my hurt, my loneliness and trust the community – you, Kimberley, Vincent, Susan and Susan, Amanda and everybody – to hold me, to not let me wander too far afield, to follow me when I find something interesting, et cetera. And I want to do the same! I’ve been reading these feminist theologians from forty and fifty years ago and one thing they all agree on is Jesus’s “Discipleship of Equals.” I’ve been thinking on that a lot these past weeks. I’ve been wanting to sign up.
Anyway, thank you for being here, Dan, and for being a friend in the strange way we cobble together these days. It means a lot to me. If you celebrate, happy Christmas. I’m grateful to call you my friend and brother.
Love,
Sean
It’s a privilege to be here Sean and to call you my friend and brother as well. Happy Christmas to you and all those holding us up and holding us close on this Christmas Eve.
All is well and always was I just couldn’t see.hope you have a good Christmas Sean thank you for all your help
Sean, it’s so nice to hear from you. How are you? How is your wife? I hope you have a nice holiday as well – I am looking forward to Christmas this year – am hoping for some shifts in the direction of quite, prayer and peace. Who knows what will actually happen. But thank you again for being here and sharing.
~ Sean