Heidi Beth

I Like to be in writing space when I sit down to share here, which is why there has been nothing new recently. I’ve been cleaning up loose ends in my life, like old debt from over 10 years ago. Debt that’s mostly been written off or owed to businesses that have closed. The few left alive are still, in reality, owed, no matter wether they are on my credit report or not. I have not forgotten all these years. I’ve only been busy figuring out how to be a grown up, how to make enough money, how to use it in a spiritually whole way, and to be honest, I have often completely forgotten about this long ago money owed and seen other things as more important whenever extra money has come to us, earned, gift or income tax return. Recently though, being completely out of debt has become a dominant desire. Not just my old stuff from days of early adulthood when I had just about no concept of responsible finances. Everything. House and car included. As we go along on this path of solvency, I seem to be moving in new levels of awareness…rapidly being aware that for me, to live a life of service the way I envision is possible, requires solvency and prosperity. Also, I believe our children will benefit from our increased availability that I believe must be the outcome of this process. Some debt, I am told, is okay. Doesn’t everyone have some? At least most people? I think so…but I want out of that trap. For me it had long ago developed into a spiritual disease(debt), and now that we are on the train to freedom, I intend to get all the way there.
That said, I’ll go back to September 1997 when I spent a whole month in my mom’s bed asleep or reading, dpressed and confused, not knowing how to live my life. The details of that confusion may make it into another entry but are not for this one. After a month spent hiding, and sleeping, I spent 4 solid days and nights awake, walking around like a mad scientist in my mom’s little apartment, trying to figure out what to do. Much of those 4 days I spent in prayer, mostly the Tablet of Ahmad and Long Obligatory Prayer. What I finally determined to do was move to Chicago where I knew the area, knew I could eventually find a decent paying waitressing job, knew I could get around without a car and there were strong Debtors Anonymous meetings I was longing to learn from and be spiritually supported by in my new determination for recovery. So I called my friend Iris, arranged to live in her living room until I could find a job and save for an apartment. In October 97 I left for Chicago…again…but this time I told my mom and dad to please say “No” if I asked them to help me through another transition. This time I knew I needed to make it on my own no matter what. Also, I knew I needed to make peace with my fear of dying if I were to ever live boldly as a servant of Baha’u’llah…really working for world unity…if I wanted to call myself a Baha’i and have it ever be potentially true. I spent 4 months at Iris’s before finding an excellent job at an upscale diner in Lincoln Park and a wonderful apartment at Ashland and Montrose. During those 4 months, Iris and I grew very close. She became a gentle, loving mentor, someone I soon wanted to emulate in ways, for her peaceful nature, for the grace she carries in her as a result of long years of recovery. While I was living with her, I decided to write down 100 goals and dreams, things I actually intended to do, have or give during my life time. After those 4 days of Prayer and wakefulness at my mom’s, I continued to say the Tablet of Ahmad and Long obligatory Prayer every day. I also started reading, one after another, biographies of early Baha’i’s. Because of this, I began to really see the visions and goals I’ve long held as possible, real, not just hopes that I knew were more likely to come about someday if I wrote them down. So now to the list of 100. It took several days to complete and was the most ambitious, specific list I’d made yet. I’d been writing down dreams and goals since I was 19, often as large as having a gymnastics gymnasium next to my house. Even though I couldn’t get adult life figured out and kept tripping over myself, I knew that I had to keep reaching. The difference was, this time, I was making an internal committment and asking God to help. Midway through the list, Iris asked me how exactly one writes down 100 goals. How can there be so many? So I pulled out my notebook and said something like,”Well, for example, here’s one I just wrote. ‘Go to a seniors residence, pass out white roses and take the residents that can go out, anywhere they want to go.'” Skip now to the next evening or maybe the one following that, when I met a friend for dinner. My understanding was that we were not dating, but he was hopeful, so when I met him at the restaurant, he wanted to stop by his car for a moment to give me something. There on his passenger seat were wrapped flowers. I opened them and with a deep sense of awe, found 5 white roses. After dinner, he drove me home. When I opened them, again I was deeply moved, to find that I had miscounted and there were 9. I accepted that as a message that I was not alone and that I should keep reaching, knowing that as long as I keep on, God was helping in ways I could not comprehend and that the goals and hopes I have for life and the world are achievable.
A second, beautiful and unexpected story.
On November 11th, after the Birth of Baha’u’llah Celebration at the Baha’i Center, Devyn was offered some flowers which he brought home. My Aunt Alma died the morning before(I’ve already begun a post on that since she and I were very close), and I asked Devyn if we could bring her family some of the flowers. He said we could bring them one but can we please keep the rest. Later, I realized the frowers on the table in the tall vase were white roses so I counted them. 10. One for Aunt Alma’s family, 9 for us. It would be exactly like her to give such a signifigant gift so I’ll believe it to be so. Thank you Aunt Alma. I love you.

Maybe this will never be posted, but I sit here needing to write. It’s just after 3am, sunday morning. Almost an hour ago, I was woken up by a loud fight outside my bedroom window. Then it was words, loud angry, unreasonable. I sat parylized, listening, somehow afraid the fight was going to come get me if I was noticed, going over in my half sleep calling the police, then feeling sure that if I did, the fighters would know it was me and come to my house and kill me. This is the trouble. Eventually, a car drove away and all I heard were the voices that seemed to be trying to get along. What got me was how scared I was even to call the police. That I was frozen as if a large animal were lunging at me just because I heard yelling and anger accross the street. By this time, I couldn’t see calling the cops as being helpful, since the trouble seemed to have left. So I went to the prayer room and said The Long Healing Prayer. I’d started to say it earlier, while waiting for Grandma to let me know she was on her way to our house and Matthew and I could go to the Race Unity potluck. I started to say it for the healing of all the wounds racism has caused, and remembered how I spent 6 months saying it everyday, often asking God to accept it for the healing of racism and creating of human friendship easily between black and white in America. As we get out of debt, settle more in our new home, see David home more, that year of prayer and healing is coming back. I picked two white roses 2 nights back. From the flowers next to the house. Bahiyyih must have planted them another year and now they are ours to enjoy. How I found myself saying the Long Healing Prayer again, for race unity. Maybe I’ll share the story of white roses here sometime. It’s signifigant and full of wonder. Listening to the crickets and the dark, I have no great insight, neither do I seem to care if this entry makes sense to anyone but me. That’s fine. Obviously some action is needed. What exactly in the next week I don’t know. I carry this beautiful vision of friendships, supportive, loving, respectful friendships growing up all over C-U between black and white people of different classes and education. Just like people can do when they look at eachother and see beauty.

It’s the end of the same day and I’m challenging myself to write something even if I do carry a vague feeling of the day sitting around my shoulders. It was a good day. Productive. 3 days of dishes washed, a wardrobe moved, kids properly fed, porch cleared out and straightened up, a short craft project on the porch that was a favorite at camp that Devyn would like to continue at home and a not so fruitful bit of shopping around for materials. Tomorrow, Hobby Lobby. Then we’ll make those beautiful colored “sand” scenes in a bottle. I loved those when I was a little girl. I still love them. New cell phone arrived today, all activated now. I care to remember how peaceful it’s been not having it with me these few days and so keep it home as often as I can deem reasonable, which is a lot more than I did before the last one’s charging feature died. A snack before bed and read more of Farmer Boy. A kind end to a day.
Other than this, not much am I thinking. I am trying to not think, to be instead and see what thoughts come. Find out what wonder is available and smile when the sweet memory or realization that guides me to a next step comes.
Good night Baha’u’llah. Thank You.

It’s 8:16am Thursday. Normally I would get dressed by now, have the kids shakes made, checked messages, called David and brushed my hair. But I’ve decided to do it wrong today. To start with writing right after prayers, with only my shake made. I started prayers while clipping the bushy entry way to our sidewalk, instead of sitting quietly in our prayer room. I know that prayer manifests as truly in action, but to practice it during a time I normally sit still, eyes closed, to recite the Divine verses…this felt a little daring, then beautiful, then I knew it was right. I’ve tried to sit down several times and write during this long absence, but the day so far crowds around my eyes, jams up my fingers, and even if I am not being called to assist another, I am listening, or hearing while someone else tends our loved ones. So I am here. Checking in sort of. Again, it’s time to get up and prepare for the day on my feet. Happy for the chance to even write a few lines. Good morning Baha’u’llah! Thank You.

Joy is more important than clean dishes. Lately this is all I have to say…and learn. At least, all I have thought to write on this blog. David and Devyn are on the floor building a city with little wood blocks. Devyn says “Do you know what?” David answers “Three.” Devyn says “Three what.” They go on their way in their way, setting up a ramp for a lego car to roll off and crash down the structure. The little lego car is not able to crash the row of towers so they start playing demolition derby. Now the towers are a floor full of blocks and they go through the conversation again…”Dad, do you know what?” “forty two.” “Forty two what?” “Just guessing.” “My Grandpa is a hundred and fifty years old!” “Does Grandpa know that?”
I enjoy David being home.

Maybe it’s always been the coffee. If it’s perfect, I can write. I just brewed the last grounds as a single cup of espresso. Now I have the keyboard in my lap, it’s saturday morning and I’m trying to connect interesting thought with page. No particular interesting thought, just words that I like to read, that someone else might enjoy.
Last night, Matthew pointed out my rainbow colored backpack, telling Grandma to take it with her. At this point, I told him it was my writing from long ago and told my mom that I have 2 more boxes. Then I showed her the boxes, realizing that I may have never mentioned to her that I have been carrying around all this writing dating back at least 18 years, likely longer. I’ve been carrying it around so that one day, like last night, or today, or any other day from now on, I can slowly, quietly sift through the contents of my mind, heart, soul, through time and probably do several practical and mystical things with it all over time. I have long intended to work on some of the better pieces and have them published or performed. I want to put it all in chronological order and reread it. I expect sharing parts of it will be useful to other women, and men maybe, and especially young people who believe, with all their heart, that no one can understand what they’re going through(and they may be right considering how often we get older and shut the door on our youthfulness in order to “get along” in the world. It doesn’t work). I also expect to remember, as if returning in time to those hours of search, longing, sadness, determination, introspection, intensity….words here won’t capture it so I’ll stop trying and let the task of unearthing time be it’s own reality without my expectations(hopefully).
Also, I need insight into being a child again. If I do, I can connect with my children better. God willing, I can be a better guide into maturity, a more empathetic teacher, more patient with their challenges and with full realization that whatever they are facing is huge to them, their reality and to be honored, never discounted. Often, my dad was good at this, staying up late nights to tell me stories of his growing up, of his early years with Baha’u’llah and the magnificient souls he spent so much time with, not knowing at the time the signifigance of these friendships(do we ever know). Telling me stories of Abdul-Baha, of the intimate struggles of the first Baha’i’s in a way that I knew I was like them…human and trying so hard, no matter how backward I felt inside.
I’ve looked at a few pieces last night and more this morning, between sentences written here. I’ve put this off for years(though the desire to see what lies within the boxes and cardboard covers has sometimes been a deep ache) by way of a seemingly endless series of moves that has finally ended with this house. I don’t know how much if any I am willing to share with a computer journal, but that doesn’t matter right now anyway. Getting started matters.

I want to write.

Maybe it’s not time to write. Maybe I only want to because it’s safe here. Oh how I want to cry. Not from great sadness. But Because it’s all built up in my limbs, crowded. What do I do here? Pray.

All avoidance, some balance. I’m thinking things like…If I had a light lap top, I would spend time in odd places writing on this blog. I seem little pleased with the corner I sit in presently. Though happily listening to one of the “radio stations” created by pandora.com. It’s after 5pm, the computer reports 6:16pm. The afternoon was long and sleepy. Today, Bahiyyih helped Devyn plant his first garden. It feels so human and regular, like I am a worthy mom now. We tried to plant in Mississippi, but it was too late in the year and too cold. Also, Devyn , in his speedy and amazing way, rushed out to water his flowers too much and in my inability to stop him and do all else that was then required of me, they did not grow more than an inch above soil. I believe we are all more mature now and a good and beautiful garden will soon spring up in the square of ready soil we offered seeds to today.Water every third day. After it rains, start over. Bahiyyih down the street now can be called on for councel. The sun now, so peaceful a presence pours into our front windows. I passed by it on the way to the computer and felt that just because of it, here, now, everything will be all right. Oh Lord, settling is quietly hard, the no running away part. How I have perfected it God, but pray still to learn to live with out the fear of angry men. How many of us, I wonder are conciously and unconciously afraid of angry men. The ones in our lives and the ones through history, and the ones now, who seem unable to think clearly and yet, are in charge of masses.
I realized one day that I have failed to feel sad for anybody suffering far away. That I have failed mostly to think of them at all, let alone pray for them, hope for them, think of their children. I think of them now, sometimes. At times recently, I have prayed for them, even cried for them. But mostly I have been stuck in my own life. I pray this continues to change. That hurricaine, so close to our home, but not close enough to touch us, that was the kick over into sanity as far as this goes. How I ached for those people Sunday night. All night. I ached like I did the night I looked into eternity, saw it was real and beat my fists into the carpet, a deep down scream in my soul, way down, where I couldn’t stop it, or quiet it, or be distracted from it by any thought. The next morning I saw Baha’u’llah. The next morning was sunshine and light everywhere, inside and out. Monday when I woke up, knowing a storm had raged, I was not rewarded with spiritual light like before. Only the pain of the night had been similar. Instead I ached. Here are the tears now, again. Once it happened in America for all of us to see, the pain accross oceans began to seep into my belly. For any reason, for any ignorance, for any injustice. Images flood my mind now, of the soft light as it came in through our office window, and a stream of….out of reach memories of how the realization grows, of the simplicity of it all, the childishness that carries on between religions, nations, coworkers, husbands and wives. How the answer is love, but how that manifests is huge…and simple. How it requires people to change. I’ve been changing so slowly, though the effort has been great. So vague. I can’t reach it now enough to keep writing.
Another day.

I’ve had this blog for over a year and have had liitle or no mind to write in it, beyond the first entry, until now. Even if I say nothing, it’s time to write. If no one reads these words, it’s time to write. Because I’ve always written, because these words heal, because I’ve been afraid to share so publicly. Fear goes nowhere here, only to isolation. And until now, I have kept myself too busy moving to have mental time to share. What, I wonder, is waiting to come out? I can only find out by listening to the hammer of keys and watching the fabric of my mind unfold. So goes it.