When I was in the convent, the Sisters didn't really celebrate birthdays but they did celebrate feast days. My feast day is November 4th. In the last year of my exile with the Sisters, my superiors decided to teach me a lesson by not celebrating my feast day. I don't remember what I did to deserve the cancellation of the celebration. I doubt it was anything serious. It may not have even been something real but something they imagined and pinned on me. The Sisters had a way of twisting reality to suit some mysterious plan. That plan will always remain a mystery to me.
One of the things I asked for (I was supposed to submit suggestions), was a dictionary. When November 4th rolled around, in 1982 Sister C. made a big deal of the fact that I was denied a celebration and any presents. "Dictionary denied!" When at the end of January, of the next year, I could no longer torture myself by remaining in the convent, many of the Sisters acted with guilt and regret. Most seemed actually saddened by my leaving. In a sincere and tearful gesture, I was given a $1000 to start a new life and a large hard-back edition of The American Heritage Dictionary of the English Language . That dictionary sits next to me now. The binding has cracked. A few of the pages sit loosely among the others. Today, I use it to look up the word, frustration. This is what my 1981 version says:
"Frustration: n. 1. The condition or an instance of being frustrated. 2. One that frustrates."then I looked up. . .
"Frustrate tr. v. 1. a. To prevent from accomplishing a purpose or fulfilling a desire; thwart. b. To cause feelings of discouragement or bafflement in. 2. To prevent the accomplishment of, development of; nullify. . ."
Finding this definition in a dictionary laden with memories has an emotional impact on me. As I close the book, several pages try to escape. I frustrate their attempt by carefully putting them back. Lately, I've been painfully aware that I'm wearing frustration like a bad tattoo. I've tried to cover it up but my ability to maintain the denial is weakening. I'd love to indulge in a good old-fashioned cry.
Thinking I was making a valiant effort to stave off frustration and depression, I've devoted a lot of mental energy toward positive thinking. Sadly, I think a lot of my energy has really been spent on denial. I can deny frustration no longer.
"Hello,Frustration tattoo. It's time to get to know you."
For the last few years, the world has been my cathedral. Organized religion has often been a huge disappointment and a source of pain for me. I've known some wonderful people, Godly people, over the years. I have also known some of the opposite, people who used religion as a battering ram. When I've most needed the connection to a faith community, I have felt the most distant, the most judged and the most unworthy. While I bring some of my own insecure baggage to the table, my reaction does have some justification in the behavior of some in positions of authority. How do I maintain a spirit of compassion toward those who often harshly judged me? It's a frustratingly difficult thing to do at times but one I'm convinced is absolutely necessary.
Still, the truth is, the frustrations I feel toward others and toward circumstances pales in comparison to the frustration I often feel with myself, my lack of focus, my lack of accomplishment, and my lack of good judgment. Lately, I've been indulging in a pity party of one. Frustration is a bad tattoo, a moldy cake and a filthy party hat all at the same time. I've used frustration as a whip and engaged in that freakish practice of self-flaggelation. The mental picture that conjures in my head is giving me a bad case of the full-body shudders.
So this rainy Sunday morning as I sit in my world cathedral, I intend to soak up the wisdom and energy of acceptance. In order to move forward, I must have compassion for where I am right now. I need to look at my frustration tattoo and all that it signifies and see it for what it is. It's time I got out of my own way.
No comments:
Post a Comment