The neatest thing

     The neatest thing happened Sunday.
     Sundays are stressful for the little ones. There are so many people at church, so many people we know, so many people we know on so many different levels.
     The extroverted, gregarious ones of us want to seek out friends who have been sick and find out how to be praying for them. They want to welcome friends back from vacations and set a date to see their pictures. They want to tell this lady what a pretty necklace she is wearing, tell that one her slip is showing. They jot down notes for emails (which they almost never write) to tell the pastor which parts of his sermon they liked and which parts they took exception to. And they want to greet all the newcomers.
     What energizes them scares and depletes the rest of us.
     This Sunday was more stressful than usual. When we got there we realized it was Communion Sunday and the whole congregation would be filing forward to receive pinches of bread and shots of grape juice. It meant being conspicuous. And we'd forgotten that we had to help with the offering (being conspicuous again).
     But something new was happening inside. I could see all the little ones as if they were in the Sunday School room for two-year olds. They were sitting on the floor, contentedly absorbed with picture books, or coloring at tables or--or tumbling all over a stuffed lion, about as long as they were tall. (Actually its mouth moved sometimes but I didn't hear a voice coming out.)
     A lion? Plush? It looked like--well, a miniature, safe-sized Aslan. And, since there was no adult in the room, the lion was apparently handling child care.
     Then I saw a lamb, standing on new, long legs. At first the children were curious. Blood suddenly spurted from a wound in its side--I remember wondering why from its side instead of its neck and then remembered Jesus, the lamb slain from the foundation of the world, had a spear driven into his side. The blood was sprinkling all the children--and they were jumping and laughing and playing in it.
     Then the lamb grew taller and taller until it was above the church roof and we lost sight of it. Its blood seemed to be sprinkling the whole world. The children ignored the legs--still like four pillars among them, reaching up through the ceiling--and went back to playing with the lion.
     Three things occurred to me, one after the other:
          The promise: lion and the lamb will be together, at peace with each other.
          Jesus is both the Lion of Judah, benevolent sovereign, King over all, and the humble Lamb of Sacrifice, bleeding his life out for our sins.
          The King (and Great Shepherd) protecting the children physically and emotionally. The lamb protecting them spiritually.
     The service was still going on but the little ones didn't have to be part of it.

Map of us

     G told us to make a map of ourselves. We know a few things but we don't know how to depict them in map or graph form. (The sample G showed us had circles scattered around, linked with lines, kind of like a genealogical chart.) We'll just list derivations.

    April is not the Original Self. Original Self is deep in the mattress beside Daddy, asleep or in an induced coma for her protection. April came from the Original Self. April is lying along the top of the buried one.
     Melissa split from April, carrying shame. Jess and Jenny split from Melissa in opposite directions at the same time and Melissa went to hide in the closet and pretend she doesn't exist.
     I am an Observer/Recorder who must have pre-existed some of the others. I'm not aware of having a name or knowing my origin. I'm "out" to fill a role.
     Jessica (All-about-Survival) seems to be a primary one--if primary means feeling "This is really me!"--but I thought primary ones have to feel they are the "age of the body," capable of growing rather than stuck at a specific age, and she's only seven.
     And the one Jessica calls "Walks-on-Water" seems to be a primary one.
     That's all I know. Actually, that's more than I know. Some of it is just guessing.
     I have no idea about Amy, Alexis/Iris/Diedre, Emily, the Pain Person, or any of the other one or more Jessicas. If someone else does, feel free to make additions or corrections.
     I see G tomorrow.

SENTRY

Before my muscles tense,
     before my eyes are open,
          I am awake.

     Who am I?
          I don't know.

     What do I know? 
           I have no past
               and I can't be distracted by the future.

Jerry's persistent cough--is it serious? Will he die?
Our houseguests--are they up? Do they need me?
Obama's plan to take away our money--should we get it out of savings
     and if so,
          what should we do with it?

     What is my role?
          I am on alert:
               I am a satellite dish, bigger than I am
                    shifting to monitor any subtle changes in
                         sound
                         sight
                         smell
                         touch
                         taste
                         movement
               that may indicate danger.

          I am a knotted stomach and a pounding heart.

          I am a watcher.

          I am Melissa.

               My color is orange because
               orange is the color of caution.

I can tell through my eyelids--
     it is getting light now.

I don't want to stay out.

I don't want to be here.

Let me go. . .

CONFLICTS: Hair (sigh)

     Here's the plot so far. I started graying--and dyeing my hair--in my late 20s. For years I tried to get up the courage to stop. Finally, last year I had my hair cut really short, kind of punk, but it still took months and months for it to grow out its natural color--white, as it turned out! It was a relief to be done with all the mess and pretense. Then my brother saw it. Not unkindly, he observed, "You look like [Grandma]."  Someone inside immediately decided, "Jerry deserves better than a wife that looks old enough to be his mother!" I don't remember doing it but one of us went right out, bought the dye and colored it again! When I "came to my senses," I thought, Oh no, I'm back where I started. I'll have to summon my courage all over again and then go through another year of slow torture!
    This is from my new "group" journal:
     OK, it's time for a hair discussion and (Jerry says) a vote. In two hours we're supposed to get our hair cut real short so it can grow out its natural color again. It is already to that humiliating place where it's dark brown to within a couple of inches of my head, and the roots are so pale they make me look bald. This is the stage at which I always give in and color it again. I really don't want to look like this [on Saturday], when we'll be seeing "important" friends in the media who respect me. Or did.
     Well, I guess I (the moderator) have had my turn. . . If we took a vote I think we'd all agree we don't want it white AND we don't want to color it. We want it to be naturally brown. We've always agreed on that.
     By the way, Jerry already voted for white.
     I'm trying to really listen for the ones inside. I told them to take turns and they'd each be heard but I'm nervous and don't know if I'm really hearing them. I took a preliminary vote and sensed that all but two were willing to live with it white. Of those two, one was vehemently opposed--the one (Jessica?) who says, "I don't want to look old! I'm only seven!" and another who's not sure what she wants; she keeps holding her hand up tentatively and then putting it down.
     I suppose the vehement one wants to go first:
     It isn't fair! I didn't get a childhood and now I have to look old. It's not like in Japan where they--revere?--respect people more as they grow old. Over here there's no respect for age and you just get ignored or scoffed. I've already been ignored all my life. I want to live a normal life now. Besides when I look old I feel old. I feel embarrassed and apologetic and unimportant. I can't stop thinking, "I'm [age]! YUK!"
     But that woman at that political party we went to had white hair and that same cut we're getting that we had before and she didn't look old. She looked striking! I thought, That's what we look like! I don't mind that! No wonder people said we looked elegant and regal and beautiful when our hair was white. I wanted to tell that woman that's how she looked but we only saw her from a distance walking through the big room.
     I guess I don't mind being a grandma because it's okay to play with children and do kid things if they don't know you're a kid, too. My mother and grandmother had beautiful white hair and they had childlike, tender hearts and were loving and gentle. So that would be all right. Someone is helping me write this. They are putting my thoughts in big words.
     The other one that he called tentative is holding her arm in her lap now and not putting it up anymore, like she seems to think if I'm all right about it she is too.
     BUT I DONT WANT TO DECIDE WHAT WERE GONG TO TELL HER TO DO, LIKE "TRIM" AND THEN WHEN WE GET TEHERE TELL HER "REAL SHORT." WE ALWAYS DO THAT. WHE CHANGE IN TE MIDDLE ABOUT what we're going to get and afterwards someone is always disappointed and someone (else) is always REALLY MAD (maybe me). And she always does the bangs wrong, no matter what we tell her!
     We took another vote--everyone is sitting cross-legged and although I'm not sure I saw any hands raised I still sense unhappiness where Vehement and Tentative are sitting. Like V. is resigned, not sold, and the littler one doesn't like it but doesn't know how to put it into words. Let's see if we can move the microphone closer and pick up her thoughts.
     I'm just little and I want everyone happy. I don't like argue and afraid wont be happy afterwards no matter what tell her she do it too short then some angry or cry and wish didn't go. wish hair didn't grow after find good style. Real short wacs cute. white didn't matter. I don't feel old. Many colors people change all time I don't care just don't fight.
     Something like that.
     Jess: I don't care one way or the other. Just make a decision and stop stressing about it. Who cares what your hair looks like. Big deal.
     I think Jenny's been pro-white all along. It's her color--but also she's kind of a martyr, like: I need to look my age even if it means being dismissed as irrelevant, even if people kick me to the curb. That's all I'm worth.
     So there's her quiet sadness (moping?) and Jessica's "I don't like it but I can make the best of it" and April's "Let's not think about it. Let's just all be friends." If anyone else has objections they're not voicing them. Maybe they're all silent because I, Moderator, am not just taking an objective vote but somehow bullying them into conforming to my desire for unanimity. Will they all grieve, pout, throw things, and then turn their back on me if we go through with this?
     Would it be better to cancel the appointment, drive directly to the store and "compromise" by buying a lighter shade of brown--but that's what we tried to do last time and it turned out darker and we said, "NO MORE!"
     After achieving consensus, however reluctant on the part of two or three, what's to prevent one of us from going to the store after everything's over and the last of the dye has grown out or faded, buying more and coloring our hair without our knowing it? starting the conflict all over again. And the humiliation. The first time took us decades to get up the courage to resolve to do it and a year to carry it out. Unless we're all on the same side we'll continue to seesaw back and forth, yes and no, brown, white, natural, artificial, young, old,  pleasing one but displeasing another.
     Can't we agree on something and stick to it?


     That was four days ago. Since we got it cut punk again not a day has gone by but I've gotten 2-3 compliments on the style! No one who sees us seems to mind that there are patches of white here and there.
     Note to self: This works. Don't go back. We're all on the same page now, don't sabotage this!
     Please?