If you could only see–
if you could only see.
Your eyes are as glazed as windows
I can see right through you
but the glare refuses to let you see out
You are the diabetic owner of a chocolate shop
You can no more fix your problems
than you can cut off your own head
Your livelihood is also your death
Am I supposed to pity you?
I suppose.
It’s hard to pity the one
with the soul of a limp rock
If I skrew up
I say it
and
I don’t care
if
you hear it
in fact
I hope you do
because
that’s why
I said it
to own it
to be honest
to say
this is me
I am me
I have good parts
and bad parts
and
you can
love me
or not
but
I won’t lie
to change
your opinion
I won’t even hide
behind silence
when
I make a mistake
I own
my faults
if my honesty
makes you uncomfortable
you are welcome
to leave
I, for one
will be right here
learning.
from
every time
that I misspoke
mistook
misplaced
or misunderstood
and though it hurts
if you think
less of me for
my bluntness
your censure
won’t change my course
A poem I wrote after the music spoke to me. At the bottom, some photos of said music, (yeah yeah, I know, you can’t photograph audio)
sometimes art hurts
beauty leads to truth
and truth leads to recognition
and sometimes you recognize yourself.
and sometimes that reflection is unwelcome
sometimes you recognize a you you wish you weren’t
but you are
the art shows you that.
it pulls apart the crust
and lets the filling pour out
sometimes that much filling on the counter
can make a mess
but sometimes this mess is hidden
under a second layer of crust.
some might call this
internal bleeding
on the inside
your filling is messy
on the outside, your crust is solid
I blame this on the art.
Today, I blame it on music.
You got through to me.
And here I am opened up, feeling a bit messy.
You got to me.
You spoke to me.
You opened me up to something beautiful.
but beauty isn’t neat.
Sometimes it’s messy.
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So I know that today is Easter and, as a Catholic, there is probably some sort legal requirement that obligates me to write about the resurrection. But I’m not gonna.
This post was inspired by life, as most good things are…
I hate hurting people, especially my friends, but I hate lying more. Talking about homosexuality seems to always end with someone getting hurt. I never want to hurt my friends, but I answer questions honestly. All the time. Even when those answers are ones that I know will be taken badly. To my friend with whom I spoke. I know that it is hard, very hard, almost unfathomable to understand why the Church would tell someone that their actions of love are wrong and that they cannot get married in a Catholic Church. It seems like a denial of love. And it would be, if the Church defined love as a feeling. But love isn’t a feeling. Feelings are temporary, they ebb and flow. Love is an action, it is a choice of the will to desire what is best for another. Love is a choice, a way of life, a constant decision to put another before oneself. With this perspective, one can make sense of why an institution as giving and caring as the Catholic Church would say that homosexuals cannot marry in the Church.
You may feel like you love someone. That doesn’t mean you can marry them. That doesn’t mean that the way to express your feelings is to have sex with them or marry them. There are all sorts of things that my feelings tell me would be good to do, that are not good. My feelings tell me that it is good to watch 8 episodes of West Wing in a row, eat an entire box of Girl Scout Cookies, and sleep till noon. My feelings tell me that it is good to strangle the child in my class who sticks a stick in the dirt by his foot and shouts “I claim this place and name it Footlandia!” then raises his hand and tells me that the pioneers ate at McDonalds. My feelings tell me that these things are very good. My logic tells me otherwise. God did not just give us a heart. He also gave us minds. And he expects us to use both.
The reason why girly girls like me love the knight in shining armor is because he exemplifies self sacrificial love. We swoon over knights because they would die for us, die to save us. (…hmmm this plotline is hauntingly auspicious today…) This way of defining love is wholly different from attraction. I recognize that homosexuals feel attraction to their partners, like their personalities, want to do nice things for them, enjoy spending time with them, and even want to commit to being with them for the rest of their lives. These are all great sentiments, but the sum of these feelings and desires does not equal love.
Do not think me callous either to how gut wrenchingly difficult it must be to be asked to not act on your feelings. I can’t imagine the struggle that it must be to have feelings for someone and not be able to act on them. But there are people who do understand. And they have made the choice, despite their feelings to live their lives based on what the Church teaches:
http://youngandcatholic.net/2011/07/catholic-and-gay/
http://whyimcatholic.com/index.php/conversion-stories/catholic-reverts/item/60-catholic-revert-richard-evans
http://www.stevegershom.com/q-and-a/
And this place that is a Catholic organization that doesn’t try to “fix” anyone like those horror stories you hear about with doctors and institutions and electroshock therapy.
Sometimes you love someone more by not acting than by acting. Sometimes you love someone by slapping them in the face. Sometimes love hurts. And sometimes you think it’s love and it isn’t.
And I know that saying these things has probably offended you, but realize that I said them because I love you.
Always,
Veronica
It bothers me when people mess with basic truths of existence. (Mess around and question are completely different. I am all for questioning. But messing is different.) Messing implies lack of reverence and, in fact, lack of basic recognition that these truths are as important to our existence as water to a fish. Messing hurts more than any attack could because an attack is direct. An attack stands up for itself and says, “Hey, I don’t like what you stand for. Here is what I think is better.” An attack acknowledges existence. An attack tries to take someone down, but it does it from the front. Messing never attacks. It oozes. It reconfigures and leaves you wondering where you are. Messing denies existence. I cannot imagine a worse fate that being unacknowledged out of existence.
Messing is two parts passive aggression, three parts ignorance, and five parts pride. Messing comes from hurt people who need healing, but don’t know where to get it. Messing comes out of anger and sadness from people who have put band aids on top of patches on top of scabs on top of duct tape. Messing is a way of trying to discover a solution to a problem that they don’t know exists. Because the problem is so deep or painful or private that even to acknowledge it would make east west and up down. Messing comes from people who don’t know what love is because what love is has been covered up in what I Want and what I Need and Romance and Hallmark and every other selfish trapping that turns us away from Truth.
Love hurts.
And no that is not a catchy 80s tune. That is what the crucifix on my door frame tells me each time I walk through the door. Love isn’t romance, love isn’t a greeting card, love isn’t a FEELING at all! Love is giving up what you are to build up who someone else is. Love is sacrifice. Love is honesty. Love is charity. Love is beauty. Love is something that you can give up on but, love isn’t something you can fall out of. Love is a choice.
I choose love every time I keep my mouth shut even though I would rather be gossiping, every time I smile even though I am tired, every time I choose the right way even though there is an easier way, every time I listen to a boring story even though I am busy. I choose love. And it isn’t easy. It’s really hard. And many times it stinks. And sometimes I resent it.
But that is what love is. And I remember this after every chick flick that makes me angry for it’s portrayal of love, every backhanded slap the Church gets on the news, and every time my friends hurt me with an unthinking comment that undermines my foundations.
I know what love is. And I can try to tell you. But I would much rather show you.
my heart is sore
from all the times I’ve kicked it
my heart is sore
I’ve stomped it to the ground
my heart is sore
and has become so twisted
my heart is sore
this pulp on which I pound
my mind is trapped
from all the lies I’ve fed it
my mind is trapped
I’ve shackled it with shame
my mind is trapped
inside constant discredit
my mind is trapped
I’ve forgotten my own name
my soul is skewed
I’ve torn off little pieces
my soul is skewed
ignominy abounds
my soul is skewed
my symptoms, also ceaseless
my soul is skewed
I’ve lost my final round
