Detached

From my journal, May 7, 2007:

"A new day. I've been laying here reading and thinking for over an hour already. Trying to piece together some observations I've had about myself. Stuff I'd like to hash out with Fr. Charlie when I see him next week.

Detached. I think I live much of this life detached from it. When I listened to the women at the retreat share their stories there was little or no emotional response in me. Others, lots of others, were teary, but not me. And when one women, who I'd had lunch with, who shared with me how healed she is from the abuse she'd suffered, well, when she sobbed through her story I didn't believe her anymore. No one can be healed, have victory and still cry like that. That's what I thought. And I judged her for it and judged myself, too. Victory. I figured out how come I hate that word. To me it equals perfection and how dare anyone think they are perfect.

I was laying here thinking of all that's happened since youngest son moved home - how gracious God has been and I realized I feel detached from it now, too. Dismissive. As if that's behind me, on to the next thing. And I worry that I'm treating lightly what is holy.

Twice lately I've had experiences that have bypassed my detachment. I wish I knew how to tap into that place. I'm sure I'd be healthier for it.

At the retreat Fr. Claude did sign language for a little chorus and watching him moved me to tears. I could have sobbed. He was so connected - his movements and his feelings. There was no disconnect there. He was signing a love song to God as if no one else was there:

"Father, our refuge, with arms open wide.
Your love is our strength and our guide."

Several times over he signed the song as we sang it. He was in a different place, a place of intimacy between him and God in that moment and the beauty of it did me in.

Then this past Saturday I was looking for a Mother's Day card for my mom. I hate looking for cards for her. They all sound phony and far removed from our story. But it had been important enough to me to get a card to her on time that doing so had been my motivating factor for the trip to town. And I picked up one card after another, feeling cynical, because the cards make motherhood into an idol, into something it can never deliver. Then I picked up one that basically said thank you for all you did while I was becoming me. And the tears sprung to the surface in an instant. So much so that I still felt them as I walked down the mall to mail the card.

And so I wonder what it would be like to be able to tap into that place where tears live, without it having to take me by surprise.

What am I missing by being so detached?"