I’ve learnt, mostly thanks to this adventure of parenthood, that we humans are hard-wired for routine, both diurnally and seasonally. Being from southern California where the seasons are slight (I enjoy celebrating Christmas in a tank top and flip flops at the beach, thank you very much), seasons aren’t something to which I’m accustomed. We seldom benefited from a true rainy season even. Santa Ana dry winds and heat versus milder overcast days are what have forged my weather (in)tolerance for the most part.
Britain has introduced me to changes in weather, trees colouring then losing their leaves in a noticeable manner, distinct differences in light levels, and yet even here the seasons aren’t dramatic. Even so, I’ve come to identify more with annual changes both in myself and in the world around me. Come spring my body begins to unfurl like a new shoot, reaching towards every minute of sunlight (past 7am at any rate; I do not approve of 4:30am sunrise any time of year), feeling that invitation to grow more and achieve more in the long days. Winter can send me reeling a bit with the draw to the indoors, yet this has been helped by an energetic child who needs fresh air every day possible.
We can reflect on our days, when we work best, when we begin to tire. Times for creativity and times for hard labour. As a woman I can see changes in my monthly energy cycle and where I can best channel my efforts either looking towards a creative week or a more reflective few days. As a Mom I see these cycles most clearly on a minute scale from my child. She is a schedule stickler.
We’ve come to protect sleep times as otherwise the fallout is dangerous and has a knock-on effect for days to follow. We learned early on that children respond best to routine as they feel comfort in knowing what to expect next. When changes approach they need fair warning. I thought I’d be much more of a hippie free spirit when it came to parenting but she has taught me that there can be freedom in structure.
What’s the point. One of my biggest struggles for my whole life and most definitely on a spiritual level for the last few years since I’ve begun sharing my life with one other and now two other humans, has been discipline with my time. Spiritually this has meant that I’m feeling rather disconnected from the larger community of Jesus followers as I am particularly wired for community when spiritual practices are in question, struggling with an individualistic or personal faith, and also that I feel a disconnect with God. It’s been further impaired by being unable to find a church group where I have felt I could fully dig myself in for a variety of reasons.
My church background is varied. I’m a great friend of and critic of the church. As a community of people owning up to their own brokenness and enveloping others who have that same realisation, brilliant. As an institution of power, not so much. I grew up in an American Baptist church where my fondest memories are of the youth group which I got into nothing but trouble with and of the assistant pastor during my childhood who always gave me gum. I quit going to church when I was 16, basically as soon as I could get out of it, then I returned when I was 18 and my boyfriend started treatment for an aggressive cancer. You probably could have knocked my Mom over with a feather when I asked her to buy me a Bible. What I received was a lilac women’s devotional Bible. I marked it up most memorably when I read Paul’s seemingly misogynistic comments about women and that there would be no sea in heaven. Way to insult an aspiring marine biologist and opinionated woman. Again, future post.
In university I started going to an ’emergent church’ service which was part of a rather Baptisty congregation. People danced a bit and moved. They clapped. I could close my eyes and see angels, it was so fresh and gave me so much hope that following Jesus could be creative, fresh and fun. Unfortunately my college friends left when the annually cyclical nature of the messages became a bit tiresome, and they went to a Reformed congregation which could not be more different. It was staunchly Calvinist, violently homophobic, obsessed with having answers to prove our faith. Ah, yes and women were to remain perfectly silent, except perhaps for in childbirth which they seemed to think you should definitely partake in. It was the homophobia that sent me running for the hills when they laughed about a local gay-welcoming church burning down. I went to the next most obvious place: a charismatic megachurch congregation an hour away.
I was the least positive person in history about spiritual gifts including tongues and healing. It offended every inch of me, even though I had dabbled in witchcraft as a teen and welcomed spiritual manifestations like this where that was involved. It took time to break down my walls and open me up to something like this happening in a church and in Jesus’ name. Eventually I came around and spent the next several years seeing legit miracles and a lot of hype which I fell for hook line and sinker. Then humans worked their own dis-miracles on me and my entire construct of church crumbled. The pain of betrayal,fakery and harsh judgementalism rocked my faith, coupled with burnout thanks to some personal stuff which the church did not help me through and my exhausting efforts to assemble a bunch of wounded Christians who hated church but loved Jesus. And here we are.
What you might notice has not featured in my spiritual practices is tradition or liturgy. I could tell you, of course when it was Easter and Christmas, otherwise every day was the same. We had our own routines in church services but they seemed more spontaneous than scripted (although most were in fact quite timetabled). I could not get my head around sitting in a service and saying the same words each and every week or singing, God forbid, prayers from some heavy book. Now, I can see the poetry in it, and I can sense the comfort of the expected. My last two churches have been a crazy, fairly liberal Anglican church with an incredible sensation of peace and a fairly ethnically and theologically diverse United Reformed Church. Both welcome you with service sheets full of prayers and responses.
I’m not sold 100% on the rigid liturgy of these churches as they impose a hierarchy on who can do and say what when. They don’t allow everyone to contribute equally and on the spot. But there’s room for premeditated worship in my heart now. Knowing people through the ages have said the same words and that someone will say those words in another language on the same day bring me joy and that connectivity I’ve been missing. I just wish there was a contemplative, charismatic, left-leaning church for me and my like-minded pals. Too bad we’re rather scattered or we could form one.
This brings me to the crux of the post today. Finding myself a bit lost in the scale of the year, aside from the warm sun on my back, I am lacking the fluid connection to the larger gospel story as celebrated year-round. This is not something I’ve ever been good at. Lent? What the heck is that?! Do not, I repeat, DO NOT touch my chocolate! Pancake day? Sounds good to me, but what is the story behind it? I can’t help but feel that I’m being robbed of a reflective and mighty tool to keep me woven into the story of Christ and Christians throughout history and worldwide by not observing the seasons of the Christian Calendar. I am human, and therefore I am habitual, governed by seasons, by the sun and the moon.
So for the next year I’m going to endeavour, hopefully not too pitiably, to follow the Christian Calendar and to blog about it. I hope to explore it in relation to my spirituality, to creativity, to womanhood, to activism and whatever else tickles my fancy when the time strikes. I’d like to invite you to join me. Follow these new adventures via my new blog which I’m drawing a complete blank on for a creative title… vickieschellert.wordpress.com. I feel all grown up and exposed having a blog bearing my actual name! Please follow me on over and let’s see where this goes!