Dangerous is the Color of My Anger

Dangerous is the Color of My Anger

here I am again

having to put on the 

body armor 

yet again

before I travel outside myself

lest the slings and arrows catch me

unaware

and I become foolish

do not be misled

I am a pacifist not because

I am good

or because I walk 

such a superior path – 

far from it

I am a pacifist 

(more accurately 

an aspiring one 

or better a lapsed one)

because I know oh-so-well

the violence 

that dwells 

within me

and I would not 

do you harm

weapons are bad things 

in the wrong

hands

(are there any

right ones?)

mine are most definitely 

the wrong hands

my weapons are words

and I know how to use them

with the precision of a surgeon

and the detachment of a serial killer

I continue to wrestle

the angry monster

and she is me

thus far does the weaponry

remain safely in the armory

of my mind

sore provoked,

I withdraw

into silence –

the only safe space

I know to protect

you from me –

and ponder

first things –

important things –

God things –

and recall not

who I am

but who I am

called to be

it will have to do

Raising My Arms in Praise

Praise has many postures.  My favorite is arms upraised.  It makes me feel like I’m a little girl again, lifting my arms that I might be lifted, imagining that it is God, bending over to pick me up and cradle me in the embrace of love.

Ben in his Grandpa's arms

My arms upraised remind me of safety and of being small – just the right size in relation to God.

Hands in the air call to mind Uncle Bob, the tallest man I knew in our family of short fellows, hauling me up on his shoulders where I could see everything.  Upraised arms remind me of being tall – just the right size with God.

Arms upraised remind me of lifting my own son up, up, up, ever higher, his laughter a visible expression of joy – just the right emotion when meeting God.

Arms held up through his tears as he cries his sickness and yearns for comfort, my grandson sleeping the fitful rest of the sick child with breaths measured by the rhythm of his father’s chest – just the right spot when needing God.

Running Away/Running Toward

Me about the same age when I decided to run away,
hunting Easter eggs at Grandma's house

I ran away once.  It was at my Grandma’s house.  I don’t even remember why, but I was really mad at my parents - they probably told me no about something.  All I remember is that I walked out Grandma’s front door with all the righteous indignation a 7-year-old can manage – off the porch I went and across Grandma’s front yard and I started down the driveway, which meant I could no longer see the house.

My anger and my thoughts – they’ll see – I bet they’ll miss me when I’m gone – I’ll show them – all those thoughts carried me over the rise and down the beginning of the driveway.

Then I looked back and realized I couldn’t see the house.  And I ran as fast as my little legs would carry me, back into the safety of Grandma’s house.

The funny part was that no one even knew I was gone.  They would have if I’d stayed gone, but I didn’t.  I came back, because I was afraid, but also because the safety of the arms of those who loved me was behind me, not ahead of me – it was in the direction we were all going together, not the direction I set out for myself.

Am I a Safe Space?

The phrase ‘safe space’ in our time often refers to literal safety, comparable to the older aphorism, A man’s home is his castle, the belief that where we live should be free from all unwanted intrusion.  It can refer to domestic violence shelters for battered women, protective orders for the victims of stalking, and child protective actions to keep predators of the young at bay.

But ‘safe space’ has also come to signify whether a group of people offer psychological and spiritual safety to each other . . . or not, as in whether it is ‘safe’ to offer another point of view within a particular context.

Like any good idea, the notion of safe space can become meaningless when it over reaches, as in the felt need to have no disagreement expressed with one’s own views, as disagreement is too often equated with threat or danger.

From Flickr Commons

We are allowed to disagree with each other.  But in the United States, my own belief is that we don’t know how to disagree or how to be disagreed with very well.

Disagreement can be healthy and can lead to new learnings, new ways of being, for all of us.  If I listen, truly listen, to you, I can learn about a point of view I knew nothing of before.  My point of view can bring the same eye-opening opportunity to you.

As someone with definite opinions (which means nothing more than that I know my own mind really well), I have often been accused, directly and indirectly, of threatening the safe space of others.

Usually, I am left puzzled after such conversations.  What did I do or say that made the other person feel threatened?  Is all disagreement threatening?  Or is there something about the way I express myself, the certainty with which I speak, that leaves the other person feeling excluded or attacked?

Surely there is middle ground between the extremes of social and political discourse in our time of either (a) not discussing areas of disagreement at all (as in mother’s admonition to never discuss sex, religion or politics with others) or (b) name-calling, shouting vilification.

Which brings me right back to the question: how can I be a better safe space for those with whom I disagree the most?

I can speak more quietly.  I can speak less and listen more.  I can take off my ear muffs when it comes to the things I don't want to hear.  I can try to do better.

But here’s what I’d like from you in return: please do not assume because we disagree, that I am bad or mean or not listening.  I may hear you very well, but simply see things differently.

And let’s agree to this: when we post stuff on FB or in our blogs or anywhere into the technological ether, let’s pay attention, special attention, to truth.  When I get it wrong, tell me.  Insist that I retract the lies.  And allow me to do the same with you.

Let’s be more gracious, especially to those with whom we disagree.  They aren’t monsters.