Atoms and Angels

 "And the angel said, 'Come here.'"
--Book of Revelations, somewhere

Penny Cooper has been learning about atoms in her summer reading (she has a list of books), and this morning she was dancing around, singing a little song,

"I am dinosaur and fern juice. And if nobody knows I'm real, I'll still be atoms!"

I think she found that comforting.

I believe in atoms.
I don't believe in angels, not in the same way, as objective realities, but they seem to work anyway, as Agents of Serendipity and Magic Messengers You Never Expected, and the like.
____________

Did I say? I think I didn't--that the therapist gave me homework--to check out a Buddhist meditation center that does a lot of social justice work.

I feel like therapy is a sausage machine:
whatever you put in, a predictable shape comes out.
"Intimacy issues"
"General Anxiety Disorder"

And, Buddhism?
OMG, I am so not interested.

I WAS interested in Buddhism, off and on, over the years. The idea of mindfulness, which I discovered through Thich Nhat Hanh in my twenties, has been super helpful to me. I learned so much from and still love American Buddhist teacher Pema Chodron.
In my forties, I even sat meditation for a couple months at a place called Dharma Field.

(Did the therapist even ask?
She did not. I am not impressed.)

Anyway, in the end, meaning no disrespect, in this part of the country, Buddhism feels to me like Lutheranism. Quiet and tidy and sanitized, no bloody bodies on display. (And the meditation parking lot is full of Priuses owned by people who've gone trekking in Nepal.)

When the therapist gave me that homework, I agreed, but the last thing I said as the session ended was, "I miss Mass."

That night in bed, I thought, listen to yourself. You may not believe in God, but you miss him. Set aside your beef with the Church for a moment, and go.

The next morning--yesterday-- I went to the weekday 8:30 Mass at the church 2 blocks away. The first reading was from somewhere in Revelations:

"The angel said, come here."

Well, okay, then.

The Catholic Church is a Bad, Bad Church, there's no doubt--but there's also no doubt, in this part of the world, they have the best toys!
(Tibetan Buddhism has lots of good ones too, but I am not Tibetan.)
And it's a bloody mess, just like my workplace.
And me.

I went out for beer with Ass't Man after work yesterday--the first time we've ever gone out alone together.
We're going to a meeting with the City Council member for the store on Friday, and we were talking--again--about the question of how to help––can we? do we?––and how to bear, how to stand the suffering we see around the store.

I was telling him about going to Church and how it gave me a place to stand--and help to withstand.
Like a lot of people who grew up Catholic, he doesn't like the Church--and who can blame him?

I was saying, a lot of people tell me they find the crucifix barbaric.
The crucifix is barbaric--that's the point.
It's like the figure of George Floyd, with angel wings, painted on the pavement where he was killed ten blocks from the store.

I said to Ass't Man that ever since Floyd's murder, I've been feeling pulled to the Christian story again.
While Floyd did not choose his martyrdom, unlike Jesus, there are similarities--both were innocent people killed in public in a show of force by the authorities; victims whose deaths served a larger purpose.

Ass't Man said he had never seen it like that... "I've only thought about how God can help me," he said. 

(Huh. Ask not what Love can do for you.
Ask what you can do with Love.)

I really, really liked going to Mass. The Church says,
"Yes, Life IS that awful.
So, here. Here's a magic cookie for the journey.
Now, go. Get out there."

I thought about quitting therapy after only one session, but now I am grateful for it: by it trying to squeeze me into the wrong shape, I found one that fit me better.
For the moment.

I wonder what other things I'll un/re/dis-cover through this therapist. She must be an angel! The angel of the wrong-fitting homework.