Sweatpants don’t suit me. Never have. But people love them, especially people stuck at home for months freed from fashion standards in workplaces and public spaces. For teleconferencing, a single crisp shirt will do. That one shirt and an absence of anything too personal—handwritten notes, self-help books, a jar of Vaseline on a shelf. Nobody needs to see these. That we can even consider spending half the day half-dressed proves the engines of vanity are being retooled. Consider hair. When the pandemic began, absolutely no one was having their hair cut, not even people who could do it themselves. We were stunned. Any tending of appearance seemed petty and irreverent. Besides, it seemed impossible in our emotional state. These days, the concerns of dressing from head-to-toe have been replaced by a new vanity, one more insidious than before the pandemic. The corner thumbnail of myself in conversation on screen is like the mirror I am lucky to escape from after fixing my hair every morning. This real-time image of myself reflects my reflection to me, and I can’t help but glance… and glance… and… The distraction of wanting to and NOT wanting to see myself at the same time intrudes on conversations and strategy sessions and sincere inquiries of concern for your wellbeing. I can’t hide from my self-aware-self-consciousness anymore. Which makes me ask: what is it for—this concern for appearance and how I show up for the day, for you in that day, even if you will never know what kind of pants I’m wearing? Why get dressed? Why get all the way dressed up, tending the body, donning jewelry and a matching over-shirt, the handprinted one I found with my son when Comic-Con was in town two years ago? I dress up—even now—because I still believe looking my best gives a welcome gift to the world, even the incidental world of UPS delivery drivers and neighbors bringing their garbage bins back from the street. Yes, the world I see every day is small—family-members and the two friends who are germ pod-mates. What do they notice when they see me? They could care less what I look like! They barely notice anything. I do love them, but it’s discouraging. What’s the point of wearing a mini-skirt if no one really sees my legs? Which is the point, of course: I hope to be seen. But not only for the obvious reasons. Colorful clothes and hair held up high with a flame salmon elastic are also a way I express my appreciation for YOU, you who are beautiful however you appear, you whose smile I crave. You who will sometimes smile because of me. I miss your smile. I miss the smiles of my friends, of the familiar folks who work at the drug store, the food market, the dress shop where I used to stop in just to visit with the women, to turn and share the way my garments fall just so, just so for you, my friends, just so to celebrate our life, here, together. Now, there is so little of that. But I keep getting dressed up. I put goo in my hair to draw out the curl. And I miss you. Karen Jessee Please consider leaving a your thoughts below for other readers,
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Judge not, that ye be not judged. —Matthew 7:1 Here it is, another New Year’s Eve, and I can report I am as judgmental as ever. I could make a resolution to “become” less so or simply “judge less.” But that would be fruitless—a gesture as if only to mitigate the harsh judgement of an angry God. He knows the truth about me anyway. Christmastime brings people together in increasingly close quarters until the blessed day is past and we can all go back to our desks, or rooms, or into the great outdoors—where an even more blessed solitude can be found. This year, I’ve been especially aware of how judgmental I am. A friend had challenged me to notice my intrinsic bias against certain kinds of bodies, especially ones abundant with fat. Judging my own self for pillowing had become a compulsion once again, and I wanted to be free of it. December’s many parties offered the context for discovering how effortlessly, how unconsciously I assess the attractiveness of people. This loathsome and obnoxious tendency is one I share with an entire culture, a culture which often values a person largely upon how they appear—how they look, what their work implies about them, who their friends are. That this prejudice is shared, this sense of entitlement to judge others, makes it no less horrifying to possess. My friend’s commission to be sensitive to my own bias made it clear to me I have been health-trolling my college-age cousin. In recent years, she had gained upwards of thirty pounds, and on her small frame the difference in her appearance was dramatic. I would thoughtfully complain to my college-age daughter (didn’t I know better?) that my cousin’s health is compromised. Her beauty is too, I would slur. But as far as I know, her health is just fine. Her fiancé clearly thinks she looks fine. The truth is, my cousin has always seemed genuinely pleased with herself. Her extra weight hasn’t changed that. A family party the week before Christmas gave me the pivot I needed. I didn’t want to think badly of this girl. Hell! I didn’t want to think badly of myself! The only alternative? Don’t make evaluating her appearance part of relating to her. I couldn’t judge her less; I couldn’t judge her, period. When we spoke at the party, I was delighted to discover she had hugs for me--lots of them. Her smile shone as brightly as a candle reflected in tinsel. I felt waves of affection for her. By the end of the evening, I could tell it was love. I am confident my cousin sensed the change in my years-old attitude of judgement and misguided concern for her. Her behavior suggested it, all warmth and resilience. People who are judged feel threatened and defensive not appreciative and open. They know they’re being judged and act accordingly. Which is the real truth behind Jesus’ dictum: when we judge others, we are known that way. People judge us for being judgmental. They are blameless, because they are right. If I don’t want to live in the swamp of Holier-than-Thou, I have only one choice. Resolutions to be better won’t bring me to the new territory. I must be different, not judge at all. I must be willing to grow into loving. I must be love. This is a good time of year to rout out a shortcoming like obsession with appearances. One of Christmas’s most salvific messages is the way God turns the world upside-down with the birth of his poor child. Jesus is vulnerable not just as an infant but as an immigrant, as a member of an occupied people, a rural people. Nothing good is supposed to come from “someone like him.” We know, however, that good lives in him, IS him. Christmas reminds me God isn’t judging. Whether shepherds or kings with their retinues—we are all welcome at the stable. Karen Jessee If you would like to be informed when posts are made on Search and Know, please write to me with "subscribe" in the subject line. Thank you!
Love is patient. . . Love bears all things.
—1 Cor 13:4, 7 Love can be understood as a kind of space, a spaciousness with room enough for us to be our whole selves and for others to be who they truly are, not the cardboard images we have of them, the 2-dimensional pages of them we bind, fluttering, as if in a book. We can become no more than libraries if we’re not careful—shelves full of the books we think other people are. But ideas we have of a person are not that person, and even if they were we couldn’t read them. Every person is written in their own unique language. Perhaps what happens as relationships grow and mature is that one person trains the other to read and understand and even speak their own unique language. Under the best of circumstances, this is extremely challenging, both the teaching and the learning. I think of my children as I write this. For years, I thought I was teaching them to speak my language. Now, during their adolescence and young adulthood, it has become clear they were demanding I learn theirs. I try with all the might I can muster to learn. Still, I’ll never be able to read them. They are not actually books. It’s an imperfect system, conceptualizing people. We store them like favorite or despised literature within the stacks of our memory, catalogued by preference or under duress, depending on who we are or who we have to pay attention to. Honestly, it’s probably more loving not to store people at all, at least not for long. Love suggests it is better to know people where they become real, holographic with light, dynamic with depth and weight and substance. We visit them where they come to life in the sacredness of their space of being, where perception—the unique language of encounter—is something they offer us out of their own self-understanding. What a lot of work this requires! Listening, resisting the impulse to interpret or judge or butt in with my ideas, waiting for them to come forth with more of who they are, listening more, practicing more impulse control, and on, and on. Above all, receiving a person in truth requires patience. It means waiting by their door until they come to fetch me, inviting me in to learn from them how to hear and know who they are. It means, until I am invited in, I must wait for them. No matter how long it takes or how frustrating it may be to wait in the hall, it means I don't pick up the book I have of them and read. Karen Jessee The prompt for my Tuesday writing group greets us from the table as we enter the room—a pile of shells from the North Carolina shore. I sit down where sand has spread out like fairy dust to bless us, full of the kind of magic we all long for. Carol invites us to choose a shell to sit with, to write about. I know instantly which one I’ll pick. It’s the one she adjusted at the very last moment. Quirky and charismatic, it smiles at me, mouth open wide in a full-faced grin. I smile back, then see its swollen upper lip. The wound protrudes, puffed and shiny, in a prominent bulb of white. I can’t help but worry. Was my shell in a fight? Has it been through some trauma? Has it been bullied? Rejected by a lover? I hate that person! The one who cost this smile its perfection, the one who dared to slam a simple soul to the ocean floor. The audacity! I resent them. My shell shrugs the insult off with a casual spirit of “Live and Let Live.” I’m not so still, so calcium and calm about it. I have been hurt, haven’t I? I’ve been bullied! I’ve been rejected! My lip blooms hot and red like a carnation, at least it has when I’ve walked straight into a doorjamb, as close to hit as I’ve ever been, thank God. Still, the door, like those people who’ve deigned to dis me, truly disappoints me and offends—an opening not at all wide enough for me to enter into and be. How clumsy I am trying to walk through a door that’s so narrow! After slamming into the trim, it’s best to turn around. After rejection, too, it’s best to turn around. “There’s more fish in the sea!”, I’ve heard all my life. My reply? But, I like this fish! It goes well with a split lip. My shell gazes up at me from the table, its mouth open in silent conversation spilling fairy dust words into my notebook. It seems to say, even unwanted parts of us—whatever’s left of a broken heart, a diminished dream of fulfillment in adulthood—even those parts can speak a salty magic, words which bring savor to life, which prompt us, and each other, to turn around and smile. Karen Jessee If you would like to receive notice of new posts by email, please write me at searchandknow@mindspring.com.
In [the heavens, God] has set a tent for the sun, which comes forth like a bridegroom leaving his chamber. . , . . . runs its course with joy. . . [T]here is nothing hidden from its heat. —Psalm 19: 4b-6 On my way to the North Carolina coast this week, I attended my nephew’s wedding. He exemplified the happy bridegroom, his face full with warmth and longing, his course set straight for his beloved bride. Yes, this is the sun: Its joy reminds us of who we are—divine sparks of creative love. When we allow its light to shine within us, we reveal something of God. At the beach, however, I am less aware of joy and more of heat. Nothing is hidden from it! The beach’s heat makes its raid in three dimensions, aided by white-hot reflections off the ocean, the pale sand serving as a sink for solar gain. This heat is primordial. Scary, a forecast of our possible future. I tend to stay tucked away in the shade, mourning the appearance on my forearms of even more freckles. The sun will do that to you. I’m as vulnerable as anyone. Truth is, we are all mortally vulnerable. At the continent’s edge, it is easy to sense, enveloped in the same elements which God structured to form and sustain the universe—sun-fire and lightning, ocean waters, and wind. How small we humans actually are! Wave after wave after wave crashes the call to attention, each its own peal of thunder announcing God’s message to whoever’s listening. I admit that, under such circumstances, I can’t hear much. I’m likely to be back at the hotel hiding under a pillow. For those who hear waves and fall deeply into a comforted sleep, take care to listen for the “still, small voice” before drifting off. The Almighty is saying something; we all have ears. The fact is that ocean, sun, whipping wind, and sand are perfect for breeding “fear of the Lord” in a person, renewing awe and respect for God’s power. I feel mine as anxiety, with an elevated heartrate and the unlikely beachside impulse to duck and cover. Heat waves and undertow, sand cast everywhere by wind which steals frisbees and hats—I can’t feel neutral about them. I feel cowed, overstimulated, quite sure God is calling me to awaken in a more daunting way than usual. And the beach IS daunting. The ineffable enormity of the ocean proves that. My annual coastal encounters with air, water, light, and earth, help shape me into a God-fearing woman—vulnerable as any creature and undeniably small. At the beach, I rediscover the reality of my true size: I am both greater and less than I imagine, on fire with the divine yet imperfect and tiny as a grain of sand. A weekend of thundering surf brings me back to scale, puts God back in the heavens breathing light into being over a horizon which looks like the end of the world. Here is eternity, where the sun longs to see me and God sets the sky for the wedding—beautiful, dramatic, stressful, life-changing. Overwhelming. Overarching. Over me. Over all. Karen Jessee If you would like to contribute to the reflection and share with other readers, please press on the word "comments" below. Thank you!
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