Loving the Broken

There’s this one shopping center I pass every day on the way to work. Its landscaping ignites repulsion in me – a wince and a cringe that feels physical, like a splinter you can’t ignore.

A search for "ugly trees" reveals a ton of gorgeous trees. Not sure there ARE ugly trees.

My disgust roots in on the:

a) ugly aesthetic that shaped the evenly planted pines

b) nondescript shrubbery and shabby grass, lacking any care or attention

c) obvious treatment of the fauna as accessories, belying a lack of care or love or relationship to the other life on this planet

d) cheap, boring construction

e) fact that I have to live in a contemporary society that builds these ugly areas of commerce

My aversion feels so strong, I feel a hatred for this industrial society, for this western culture, for myself, even, for my participation in it. I want to run away somewhere idyllic and beautiful, I don’t want to live here, I want to belong to something lovely, where I don’t resent my environment, where the People in Charge care about beauty and everyday experience instead of the bottom line.

Kind of an awful feeling.

Today, however, something different happened.

I was on the same road, in the same traffic, viewing the same row of straggly trees edging the same lousy grey store fronts. Instead of the usual twinge – there was the memory of my son’s amputated plastic frog.

The Ugly Frog

Every so often, I sift through the constantly mounting collection of toys and sticks and paper scraps in my kids’ rooms and move them to the basement – a kind of staging area before they leave the house for good.

Sometimes when I do laundry, if I’m not careful, my son Sam follows me downstairs and ‘discovers’ old favorites that he’d completely forgotten about and the enchantment with the toy or stick or scrap revives.

Yesterday, he found a once-treasured rubber frog.

It is a very, very ugly frog. It is rubbery in a slimy way, neon orange and yellow, dirty, and full of holes. But Sam hugged it to his chest in delight.

Upstairs, however, his face crinkled up.

“His leg is gone,” he cried, holding up the nasty little thing and showing where a back leg was indeed missing. “I don’t want him anymore.”

“You can’t love him with a missing leg?”

“Noooooo….,” he wailed. And threw the thing to the ground in a huff. 

I should have been relieved.

Instead, I was kind of disturbed for the poor, ugly little frog.

And that little, mishapen, unwanted, and hole-y hunk rose in my mind like a flag when I saw the boring ugliness today. 

My heart, awakened to compassion for the rejected frog, was still open, its doors hinged with compassion. 

Loving the Unloveable

Maybe the landscapers and developers who plopped these trees down, poured concrete slabs around them, plugged in those bushes, maybe they didn’t love these life forms, but – how could I not? Love them despite their conditions, despite their ugly situations, despite their predicament?

Even as they are, broken, ordinary, each tree has its own movement in the little bit of wind, its own graceful leaning, each stretch of grass and bunch of bush sparkling a little in the sun. No, the scene wasn’t beautiful as such; I could not scrawl edits over them, pretty them up with lies about their poses. But I could love them as-is. Take them for what they are.

This was not a feeling I forced into myself, tried to feel, or a state of mind I attempted to install. Rather, I believe it flowed naturally from my practice in compassion and mindfulness, my practice of accepting and loving What Is.

It’s not an easy practice. 

We want our toys, our people, our lives, our shrubbery, our surroundings, our relationships to be whole, lovely, easy, complete. A toy with a broken leg, a person with a sour disposition, a coworker who cusses, institutional plants, divorces, unrealized dreams – these don’t only leave us dissatisfied and disappointed. They often make us feel like things are Wrong, to be escaped or avoided. 

When we love someone or something, we open our hearts to it, we connect with it, we claim it, in a way, mark it as loved. You can’t really love someone and at the same time offer a disclaimer to the world that you have no association with the beloved.

You know – that’s why people have their Likes on Facebook pages, and bumper stickers on their cars that say “I love hiking.” What we love defines who we are.

If you say, “I love the gorgeous Blue Ridge Mountains,” or “I love the south of France,” others will nod in appreciation, concluding you have great taste. 

If you say, “boy, that’s a nice stretch of trees at the strip mall,” others will think you are deficient in numerous ways – as deficient as the strip mall itself.

To love something that’s broken is to allow for brokenness. You are connecting to it, claiming it, holding it, cradling it. And you are implicating yourself – guilt by association. Someone might see you loving the ugly thing and think you are therefore ugly. Someone might judge you to be unworthy of love.

Loving truly requires bravery, and honesty. For if we are honest, none of us is without broken parts, disfigured features, unpleasant qualities. We’ve all been besmirched by some run-of-the-mill imprinting by our commercially focused society. 

Love is…

But love, as the Bible says, heals all wounds. For in love, the idea of wrong or right really don’t matter. Love is not a moral judgment. Love is not an aesthetic appraisal. Love is not about the worthiness of the beloved. Love is about the worth of all that is. It is the big open space that accepts all things within it. 

Learning to love those trees, to accept them, not only unbinds my heart, but reveals something to me truer than my judgments of ugly or beautiful. There’s an intimacy, a feeling of belonging that blossoms, or begins to. Part of my aversion to the ugly things meant separating. Instead of turning away, but accepting them for what they are, I am accepting reality. I’m here. I live here. I live around these trees that are like this. It doesn’t mean I’m blind to the situation. It means I really see it, I really see them, in the clear light of compassion, which I am suddenly seeing and believing is more truthful and accurate than the cold harsh logic of teethy judgment that I was brought up to believe was Right.

This is a huge mental reversal for me. 

A Guide to Action

And of course, when it comes to considering proper or right action, which is the best guide? Judgment, hatred, disgust? Or love?

• Acting out of disgust for this landscaping, I might just run away, call for its eradication, want it leveled, have them all killed. Or just ignore their plight.
• But acting out of love, endearment, I will want to feed and save the trees, I will want to plant more plants around them, I will want to make this mall this town this world a more pretty and beautiful place, out of love, out of a sense that this is my home, that I care for it, that I want to treat it tenderly. 

I honestly have never wanted to care about ugly malls, or boring tasks, or dumb subdivisions, or annoying eco-unfriendly highway construction – I’ve just wanted to hate it and hope it doesn’t get too close to me. I haven’t wanted to pay attention to it, because I hated it all so much.

This aversion feels like a dull pounding of a hammer in my head. When my heart opens, that pounding ceases. Things aren’t ugly and boring and abhorrent. Even the people in charge of their creation aren’t. The frog’s leg doesn’t reappear. It’s still a frog with a broken leg. But through love my perspective changes, and they are loved, not because they deserve it, but because it is the way I am learning to perceive everything – as connected, as one, as part of each other – and loved for their very virtue of Being. Loved for existing. In whatever battered shape they happen to exist. In the way a mother loves her new baby – the baby has done nothing to earn that love but be born. 

Could it be – our very nature – the very nature of being – is love? 

All Worthy

Of course, as I write this, I can’t help but have hovering in the background the many instances of conditional love – of love taken away – of judgment dressed up in a false costume of love – that I and my fiancee and many people around the world have experienced. These instances teach us the entirely wrong thing. We grow up believing we aren’t worthy of love.

But there is no such thing. We are all worthy. 

And so I am thankful for that ugly stretch of stores on my daily commute I have always hated passing, for that frog I had shoved in the basement, hoping it would be gone from my sight forever. Look how important they have become for me, what great teachers they have turned out to be! Proving again, how precious even the smallest, crudest thing can be when we give it our attention, when we see it for what it is, as something that exists, and therefore deserves, as we all deserve, love, kindness, compassion, happiness. Each and every one of us. 

Branding Your Church

It’s not that I’m a brilliant but untapped marketing genius. I’m like most English majors who have watched too many episodes of “Chips” and the “A-Team,” which also means a ton of commercials. I can dig my analytical teeth into a short story by Joseph Conrad or a Snickers bar jingle with equal intellectual chomp. And while I try to use my powers for good, there’s more jingles than short stories populating my landscape, even without a television in my house.

We live in a branded world.

We live in a world that would turn our identities into brands.

So, I’m probably not the only person with prescience about marketing trends.

Though maybe I was the only sixth grader to write to Kix and tell them to put games and other information on the back of their cereal boxes, because I found the cereal description there boring.

And then a few years later, boom – every cereal box back was a carnival.

And I was probably alone at 14 when I wrote to my favorite tampon company, OB, suggesting that instead of packaging tampon sizes in different boxes that they put at least three levels of absorbency in one box – as usually a woman needs more than one kind during her period.

And a few years later – they followed my suggestion.

I, of course, learned that it was pointless to give these corporations my good ideas. All I ever got in response was a lousy coupon.

So anyway, a year or so ago I remember remarking to someone that the names of churches bored me, and why couldn’t they take a cue from everything else and freshen up their brands – get a contemporary logo, find a name more imaginative and catchy than “1st Methodist Church of DingDong Street” or “Church of the Savior, Part 1,” or whatever.

So, yes, the common consciousness heard my idea and now I’m seeing these newly branded churches popping up all over Charlottesville, with names like “portico,” “maple grove,” “evergreen,” and a ministry called “angelfood.” All spelled lower-case with hip graphics and no mention of denomination or saint or number (I can imagine there might be a “portico, v. 1.2”).

I was pleased with the cereal box evolution, and the tampon box packaging was useful.

The church branding? I HATE IT.

Don’t get me wrong – it’s creative, it’s contemporary, it’s savvy – just as I had imagined it should be.

But it’s also distressingly unholy.

I don’t mind if the brand of a college or a car company or a snack food or even a social justice organization promotes itself with an image, a logo, a name, a catch phrase, and a color scheme that show an updated sensibility.

But a church? I want some sacred space to exist. Unbranded sacred space.

My library recently underwent a similar overhaul – moving from the staid burgundy coloring to a more lively orange and green look – well, I welcome it. Sort of. But I’m also happy that the library’s building remains stony and old, the librarians remain crusty, bored, and cranky, the place smells musty, and the homeless people are reading “Newsweek.” I don’t want it to become hip. I want it to stay old. And homey. Familiar, and old-school.

I don’t want the parks to get cool names. I don’t want museums to get too modern. I want some places to not have brands at all – just be “park,” “library,” “swimming pool,” “church.” That is, I want there to be communal spaces, public places, where we can gather without being sold any idea, without being convinced of an emotion, swayed by a saying, informed with a theme.I don’t want to go to a concert at the “Snag-a-Job Pavilion.” That is just grotesque.

We need space to mentally breathe.

And honestly, there’s something a bit dishonest about these swanky little churches with their eco-friendly brands. They’re all, as far as I can tell, as traditionally Christian as “1st pentecostal” and “Church of the Holy Redeemer.” They may have a cool brochure, but when you walk inside, you’re going to get the same Kool-aid mix, the same interpretation of the Bible, the same hand-raising and fervent swooning and tongues-speaking. There might be a guitar or a band instead of an organ or old piano, but the Bible put to a beat is still the Bible.

Altria sells cigarettes even with a different logo and a new name (not Phillip-Morris).

And you don’t need to have been an English major to see that. We’re all a little more savvy about marketing these days. A good brand is one that is honest, true to its content. A brand that’s trying to pull a hip new wool-cotton blend over our eyes? It’s worse than the outdated brand.

“Maple Grove.” Please! What is this, Church of the Natural Syrup? Church of the Suburban Development? Come back, 1st Pentecostal! I’m sorry I complained…!!!

People-Watching on the Beach

I found I had two distinct lenses through which I could see the people on the beach. These two lenses felt almost real, like those ones optometrists use to test your eyesight – clicking through, “One? or Two? Which is better?”

The first lens was the Sarcastic, Critical Sneering-but-Funny One.

Through this perspective, I saw butts hanging out of bathing suits, wrinkly thighs, fake boobs, raggedy-tan skin, fraggle-rock teeth, nasty chest hair.

This perspective laughed at the buttocks that jiggled down. This perspective made rude comments under her breath. This one saw a beach cluttered with overweight idiots who don’t know how to dress themselves. This lens rolled its eyes at the girl with the bloody nose piercing that hung like a bejeweled booger from her nose. This lens clearly saw myself as superior in so many ways…

It was oddly easy to shift the lens. Click. And the scene was entirely different. This lens didn’t mind the cellulite, but appreciated the smiles; this lens found the whole scene cheery with colors and patterns and sun and salt.

It wasn’t a goody-two-shoes lens. It was a compassionate, loving, everyone here has suffered, everyone here is someone’s child or mother lens.

My heart stretched open. My body breathed easier.

The funny thing is, while the critical lens had me assuming the Top of the Heap superior position (because I wear a bathing suit that FITS !) , I was still judging myself. And I wasn’t always at the top of the scale. I know I have flaws. There were a few hotties running around that made me look like an albino whale. But the point was, I was treating myself, not with unqualified love, but as an object to be judged.

Taking the scale away, everyone plops down onto even footing – and there’s interest in people, but it’s curiosity and appreciation, not judgment and deliberation, that occurs. We’re all diverse, different; our bodies are unique, wonderful; big or small, fat or thin, whatever color or shape – it’s all quite crazily delightful to behold.

When I’m not cracking jokes about people’s exposed cracks, I’m blissed out, not stressed out, not feeling tense with horror and disgust, but calm and easy-going – the way you should be at the beach.

But the critical lens is addictive. It’s funnier to make fun of people than it is to look at them with an all-encompassing lovingkindness. And there’s always this fear that if you don’t keep your measuring stick handy, someone else will whip one out. Kind of like Judge, so that you can get your digs in first vs. judge not, lest you be judged.

Being critical can also feel addictive because it can feel like it is real, logical, right. That person’s ass really IS huge, that person’s boobs really ARE fake, those people really DO act obnoxiously, etc etc. I really AM too fat in the tummy, my eyes ARE too small, my skin is TOO freckly, I’m not pretty enough, not good enough, etc. etc.

The thing is, there’s a difference between noticing something – noticing reality – and making a judgment about it. The thing might be real – the qualitative assessment is subjective. Why do I have to rate anyone’s appearance, including my own? Why do I need to parade myself and everyone else down some invisible runway for the c-list stars to analyze? Why can’t I just let everyone be whatever and whomever they are?

Despite its addiction, I found I could let this lens (mostly) go. And then it seemed easy to move through the day – less friction, less fault-finding, less annoyance.

People-watching was more fun. And I didn’t feel like I was separate from everyone else, set apart. I felt like I was part of the party. And it was good.

The Odd Memorial

Driving by the Vietnam Veterans Dogwood Memorial on 250

I’ve passed it thousands of times, I’m sure, without really thinking about it, but lately the sign has been snagging against my consciousness like a hangnail on a cardigan sweater.

“Vietnam Veterans Dogwood Memorial,” announces the little wooden sign, where it sits on the side of the bypass under a few random trees.

Huh?

My subconscious mind tried to piece together Japanese cherry blossoms and dogwoods – but not only are they not the same but Japan is a far cry from Vietnam. I guess dogwoods are a natural pick for a tree memorial in Virginia, kind of like your go-to running back on the football team – nothing exotic, but dependable.

But my suspicion is that someone just stuck the sign under some pre-existing trees to save money.

Which, if you think about it, is brilliant.

Heck, I could erect all kinds of memorials. A sign on my front lawn could say “The Blades of Grass AIDS Memorial” and I bet you a million bucks there would be some red ribbons tossed in the yard within a week.

Okay, maybe not. (Mostly because a lot of people these days don’t remember the red ribbon. And it was the first ribbon out there! Can you believe it? Yes, I’m talking about you, Kathryn! Hee.)

But really, think about all the expense and effort that memorials exact from well-meaning citizens, and consider this low-invasive measure of inserting signs on pre-existing structures (both natural and otherwise).  We could make Natural Bridge a memorial to 911 and it would only cost a sign.

You may think I’m against memorials, but the thing is, I’d actually be a huge adherent of them if they came with a little something more. Like some rituals. Having a bunch of information carved into marble can pique interest for further research, but I’d prefer more of an interactive experience. I want candles and incense, maybe a place to make an origami peace crane. A kite-flying contest. I’d like to go to the Vietnam war memorial under those dogwoods and discover a box to register to send money or adopt some orphans. Maybe a political book swap.

Because many of our memorials end up being meaningless. And really, we have memorials everywhere – every street sign points to something that existed before, the names of our municipal buildings honor someone with a lot of cash or status. But time passes and most of us have no clue why it’s called Seminole Trail or Cabell Library. We have signs that point us to our past but no idea what they are pointing to. We just drive by and sometimes one of us takes a picture and wonders what we’re seeing.

maple trees: one

unleaffed tree

We go to the park and – oh my goodness – our maple tree is naked.

“Our maple tree lost all its leaves,” I say. It’s a tiny tree standing sentry-like, right at the beginning of the park. It’s still got a loop of rope around its neck – like it escaped a hanging. Like it’s been leashed, but ran off, is still running. We always pass it – and the last time we did it was still in the thralls of being fantastic and red red red, belligerently. The stripped sight is slightly shocking.

“Our tree?” My daughter asks.

Her question is apt, and it makes me think yes – no – yes, because we pay attention to this maple tree, we pay a kind of homage, darsan to it, like entering a temple and bowing to the doorway goddesses, dipping our fingertips to the cool edges of a holy pool.

(So many goddesses hold up temples with their bare hands – literally arches carved with their arms – holding everything together- )

Is love ownership? I love you, we say to the beloved. You are mine.

Yesterday I heard the Flamenco singer Concha Buika say this:

“I sing against emotional dictatorships,” she says, “and against the imposition of one person over another, in the name of love.”

Yet, when we love, we make a claim – our love claims – we declare ourselves – and the beloved, she or he, sometimes is treated like a deserted island, a flag stuck through her throat…

But this love we offer this maple tree that makes me instinctively call it ours, it is saying that this tree is within our hearts, an echoing space within the temple has been created, and this is why love and art are so tightly joined, because to worship-adore-just notice and respond to person- object – idea with art-movement – piece is to enter into a conversation in which we are honoring the occurence of beauty with our own attempt to capture – is that the word? – to express our own incited joy –

And this is something like what I told my daughter when one day we were in the park and talking about art, and why people make pictures, and then why do other people want to see them.

Because there is beauty in the world, and we want to reciprocate, and offer beauty in return, a form of worship, an entering into, a collaboration –

what I said was simple, at the time, and perfect; and lost.

No, not ownership, oppression; but yes, a claim. It is our maple tree, because our love for it, our attention, has claimed it as part of our landscape, our inner territory of the cared for, the garden we tend. The inner Eden.

Lord, I get gushy over trees.