Are you running on fumes?

*** As always, the following reflections have helped me "come back to life". I only speak of them because they are lessons I needed (need).  I hope that they can help you find your own personalized path back to inspiration and awe. ***

The day began with a message from my brother-in-law and a visit to my downstairs bookshelf for inspiration.

The message from Ryan read: "What is something for which you are thankful, today?" To which I responded: "REAL people. These people give everyone permission to be real and I find that inspiring and refreshing". I love honesty and I love people who reflect and, in turn, get me reflecting.

This little exchange sent me into a privileged spiral of thought: what are the things that keep us ticking? The things that keep us "awake,  inspired,  grateful? I believe that these feelings drive the world forward and allow us to co-create with God, rooted in Faith, Hope and Love.

As human beings created in the image of God, a loving Father and the Author of Life, we are created for endless "inspiration", joy, love and gratitude. But, it takes effort to be happy in this life, we cannot coast our way into joy.

As a runner, my husband and I have found endless metaphors for life throughout our race training. If we want to run well, it requires discipline and DESIRE. I need to want my goal and I need to be willing to forsake my own comfort to get there. I can't wait for the perfect conditions because they will never come. Some runs leave me with blisters, some runs lead to pulled muscles, sometimes I eat too little before a run and I need to re-calibrate my distance. Sometimes I am dragging my butt and I just want to turn around. But, other runs leave me feeling invincible. Like I could run forever. These runs come at a high price and I would never experience them if I didn't put in the effort. The same goes for any life situation. Do you wish you felt more love for certain people in your life? Feed your love. Do you wish you had more Faith? Feed what little faith you have. Even just by doing one small thing, daily, with an open heart. One sentence spoken to God with "borrowed" Faith will do e.g. "I don't feel like you are close, but I know that You are near." Do you have certain project ideas that have been on hold since your youth because you are waiting for inspiration? Feed your inspiration. What would you say if I told you that you are not only post-poning your own happiness and joy but that the inspiration and well-being of others depends upon your attitude,  upon your desire to be happy. No man is an island, we are all connected.

Many refer to the ideas I have just presented as "good energy". While this terminology (and philosophy) falls devastatingly flat, there is some element of truth to it.  The Holy Spirit is given to those who ask for it. Throughout Scripture, those who wanted to be healed had to ask for it. If they were too weak to ask themselves, they got their friends to lower them through the roof to Jesus or they sent their family to ask for the healing. We might not need physical healing like these people but perhaps we need to "feel" something again. Perhaps our lives have become shadows of what they were. Perhaps we feel only half-alive. This, too is a type of illness needing healing. And that healing usually consists of feeding our Faith, Hope and Love because, for a long time, we've been running on fumes; approaching collapse. I think many times this collapse is referred to by the world as a "mental breakdown" or a "midlife crisis". Truth be told, I think many times it is simply the natural response to the Spirit's reserves running on empty.

I'm sad to say that many of us see it coming before it's too late but we neglect to give our Spirits the nourishment for which they beg. Are you thirsty for beauty? Seek it out like blood returns to the heart! Feed on it. Sit in an empty church, or if that takes too much time and effort initially, google beautiful images or photography that inspire awe! Awaken the awe in your heart. Ask God to return the awe of your childhood. Is it Faith that you lack? Listen to Mother Teresa give a talk as you wash the dishes. Read quotations that move you, write them on your desk post-its. It's not about empty activism, but instead, it's about caring for your spiritual health. "Doing", in and of itself, is meaningless. It is only when this "doing" is infused with love and flanked with prayer that it becomes holy and truly life-giving for others. This, I believe, is the true nature of work- it is not the doing that matters (or even the nature of the task), rather, it is how much love we pour into our work.  Let's ask to be renewed in love. The world needs love and only "open" and "real" human beings can bring that to the world.

MAY 1- Feast of St. Joseph the Worker

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Earlier in this post, I alluded to a book I recovered from our heavy-laden bookshelf early this morning. It was a book of life lessons from John Paul II and, because there are no coincidences and today is the Feast of St. Joseph the Worker, I opened to a page where JPII was reflecting on the meaning of work. He writes:

" For man and woman thus created and commissioned by God, the ordinary working day has great and wonderful significance. People's ideas, activities and undertakings-however commonplace they may be- are used by the Creator to renew the world, to lead it to salvation, to make a more perfect instrument of divine glory. " -Encyclical on Human Work (Laboren exercens), 1981, John Paul II

He's always right on.

Playing our hand well

I've always heard it said but it didn't really apply to me until today.
"You cannot change the cards you are dealt but a lot rides on how you play the hand..."

I grew up never making allowances for weakness. I'm learning that I spent a lot of years being a slave-driver to myself. I think today's lesson applies to all of us. I confused "making excuses" with acknowledgement. In acknowledging our weaknesses, we are NOT "giving in" or "giving up" we are equipping ourselves to the be the best possible version of ourselves. When we know ourselves, we know how we operate best and how to obtain the highest level of personal success. I'm ready to stop glancing over at the next girl and instead start looking more closely at my hand. I'm not (fill in your local super-woman's name here). I'm me. And the sooner I get on board with me, the better.

Up until very recently, some of my goals have proven to be unreasonable for my personality, my state in life, my finances and most importantly (and most relevant to this post) for my health.


By finally acknowledging that I have a disease that is, most likely, not going away (unless God decides otherwise, again) I am living in reality; and this up-until-now elusive reality has room for Jenna. I can make decisions that impact the course of my life for the better, I can surround the REAL Jenna by people of faith and hope. I can search out a work schedule that is healthy and fruitful. I can be gentle on myself and watch my body's outward signs carefully.

I began this new chapter by meeting a new friend, Julie, who also walks with the same disease as myself. We are, quite literally, 2 in nearly 2, 000, 000. We have a disease called Acromegaly and like Diabetes, it is an Endocrine disorder and its signs and symptoms must be monitored very closely. Unlike Diabetes, however, our disease was initially caused by a growth hormone- secreting tumour on the pituitary gland (brain tumour). I've had two surgeries and Julie has had one. I got the side-order of height with mine because I was pre-pubescent at the time of diagnosis while Julie was diagnosed later in her life (post-bone fusion). Our disease calls for vigilance because if left unchecked (without monthly injections) we face organ enlargement, bone changes, and a whole host of other ramifications ranging from digestive to dermal afflictions.

Julie and I with her children Devon and Sydney.

Both of us live beautifully full lives despite the "hand we've been dealt".  When I say "full" I don't mean living right up to the line of collapse, I mean full for us. I am newly married and my husband and I are training for my second half-marathon next month. Meanwhile, Julie is wife and also a mother (aka perma-marathoner) to two precious little ones and works three days a week in public health. St. Therese wrote about the different levels of sanctity and I think that carries over into our earthly lives as well. When it's all been said and done, a life lived well will be full. Whether it's a thimble-full, a barrel-full or a swimming pool-full. We will be filled to the brim.

"After her mother's untimely death when Therese was only four, her father and older sisters took over her instruction. Therese had a deep love of God and her sisters were patient in explaining the mysteries of heaven. At one point, her eldest sister Pauline had Therese get her father's large glass and her own small thimble and fill them both with water. "She asked me which one was fuller. I told her each was as full as the other and that it was impossible to put in more water than they could contain. [She] helped me understand that in heaven God will grant His Elect as much glory as they can take, the last having nothing to envy in the first." -Story of a Soul

As I told my husband today, I feel like I've turned over a new leaf; I'm ready to face the music and to make music with the instrument I've been given (to mix up the metaphor a bit). Life is certainly full of gifts and surprises.

Becoming Human: My version

**Jean Vanier wrote a book called "Becoming Human" which I highly recommend. This was the first title that came to mind for this post, so I couldn't help myself. I encourage anyone who hasn't read this book to do so. But for now, here is my story. I hope it helps someone out there to feel a little less alone.**

The following is an excerpt from my (hopefully) up-and-coming novel.

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I am a tall girl. Forever. The word tall is such an intimate part of my life that my eyes find it automatically in print. The words Tall ship, Tall tale, Tall Glass of water have much more dimension to me than to most members of the population. When I was in sixth grade, I had passed my mother in height, although this is generally the norm for girls, my growth picked up momentum while my friends tapered off at comfortable, adolescent-friendly heights. To this day, the idea of being so consistent -even if only physically- for so long fascinates me. Upon reflection, I cannot think of a better girl than myself to soar the uncommon heights of six feet at fourteen years old.

To me, attending dances was like agreeing to wear underwear over my pants. Towering over the rest of my friends and dancing with boys who were shoulder-height (at best) was not exactly a preferred use of my time.

At 12, I remember coming up with a way to appear shorter. I would lock one knee and extend my other leg while standing this pose caused to lose about three inches in height. Even in this ridiculous stance, I was still a good 4 inches taller than most girls (and boys, for that matter) and I still missed out on the conversations meriting whispers (whispers didn’t travel up to such great heights and, for the record, they still don’t. Needless to say, I’ve never been much for gossiping).

“Jenna, I think you should suck it up. All of your friends go. What else would you do tonight?” With that I shrugged and rolled onto my stomach. It was a dead issue. I would go because I couldn’t think up a reason to do otherwise, one that my best friend Raggy would buy, anyways.

I get stuck on things that I hear people say and I agonize myself with playing them over and over in my head. I once heard a little boy tell a waiter that he did not want ice cubes in his drink: ‘Do you know what lives in those iceboxes?’ he said with a shudder. He was 13. I was 21. Since that day, it has been an interior battle for me to consume an iced drink. I am so quick to trust others but I will rarely step out onto my own reasoning. I am not a compulsive person, but I am consumed by global problems and obsessively aware of wastefulness-to the point that it causes me anxiety when I am idling in a car, or watching water go down a drain untouched by my hands or a dish.

“Your looks are changing," my father said one morning as I was pouring my cereal.

“Oh?...How so?,” I asked, nervous to hear my own observations articulated.

It had been a long time since I had felt pretty. I would spend time in the bathroom looking at myself in the mirror painstakingly analyzing which specific feature was responsible for the recent awkwardness.

My family spent weeks of our summer in the woods. We had a tent trailer before we got a ‘real trailer'. My dad would toil tirelessly in the dark to set that thing up while being ripped apart by ravenous maritime mosquitoes. I remember having sore muscles for weeks from mountain biking, kayaking, swimming, and hiking. Getting up early for once in our young lives was a true joy, and before I learned that non-biodegradable soaps hurt the wildlife I could be found in the glittering morning lake lathering up for another day with no schedule. One morning, we left the camp site to attend my cousin’s baptism in a city about 2 hours away. We scrubbed ourselves clean the best we could (hoping the rest was a tan), and piled into the van. On the way to Halifax, my mom informed me that she had scheduled me for an appointment with the geneticist at the children’s hospital in Halifax. I remember feeling wounded. I was thinking: “Wow. I am a genuine cause for concern, alarms must be going off and she is scared of making me feel like a freak.” By this time, it was too late for that.

After begrudgingly ordering blood work at my mother’s frantic request, the geneticist sheepishly called our home on a faultless blue-skied June morning:

“Mrs. Murphy, you were right. Jenna’s growth hormone came back 50 times out of range. We need to do some tests to verify the suspected presence of a tumor on her pituitary gland,” then she said not with false humility; “Mrs. Murphy, I am so sorry we didn’t listen to you sooner”.

For my mother, this was all she needed to enter into short-circuited nature that her life would inevitably assume. My mother went to bed only to lay awake; when sleep finally found her, so would dreams of illness. Her life was lived in a river of panic. I would be awakened early on Saturday morning to my mothers hasty fingers running along the lids of my (previously) closed eyes looking for puffiness. I'd open my eyes to see her own darting eyes, inches from mine, searching my face for "a coarsening of my features", attempting (unsuccessfully) to mask her concern with nearly- warm smile. For Mom, life was put on pause and she proceeded to live in purgatory.

For my part, I found it easier to believe in my own created happy endings. We all have a choice in hardship: we can look it square it the face and feign indifference or we can really become indifferent. I fell into the latter category. I distanced myself from myself so as to become immune from the increasing stares of children at the supermarket. “Mommy, that lady is sooo tallllll...”. These comments would be met by flustered, embarrassed glances my way and dismissive shushing. “Yes, darling now come over here and choose a cereal.” As I grew into other realms, my mind also dwelt in the higher regions; I smothered any discomfort in books and dreams. I told people that I had tall cousins when they inquired about my height's origins; I didn't bat an eye when inquiring about the biggest size at the shoe store. This horror show was not my concern, these weren't my problems; I am indifferent, after all. My face grew puffier and my mind grew more free because I did not live in my body. Embarrassment and shame belonged to an unnamed girl I vaguely knew while I, on the other hand, had nothing to think about but beach blankets, novels and blue skies. At least for now.



3

There is a very fine line between the lofty love of the world and its art forms, and the quickening desire for a detached way of life. I would leave the house in a pair of clicking "kitten" heels (it was the best I could do) and a high-collared jacket to go to Mass and while there I would feel a pull to leave everything behind. My heart is inclined almost equally towards the adornment of the body and the adornment of the heart. Maybe these thoughts are completely common, but to me it seems that my heart will always be a battleground where genuine sanctity tries to find solace amid a restless recognition of gifts I am tempted to call my own.

In my life, nothing has been constant. Maybe I have never felt comfortable and at home enough in my skin to set up camp. I feel that this is a major reason why I did not develop many hobbies besides the hobby of surviving. I always felt that because my physical appearance was exceptional, my life needed to be exceptional. If I wasn’t becoming better, more well-read, better acquainted with interesting people, I was wasting precious time. I still maintain some of these compulsive ideologies. I wanted to paint but I didn’t think I had the time to learn. I always felt like just around the corner, my life would be demanded of me so I needed to be ready to wrap things up at all times. Therefore, I had better not get too comfortable as a recluse knitter. Or maybe it’s not best to develop my love for writing too much. After all, learning to write well meant that one had to, well, write for long periods of time; and I thought that my time could be used doing other things. Moreover, how does one create art within art itself? At the thought of putting some of my experiences in writing, it almost felt like a cheapening. The people I encountered were art forms in and of themselves. By harnessing their beauty and trying to bottle it I didn’t feel like I was doing the world a service but, I had never allowed the world to take up anything more than a temporary residence within my heart. Up until this point, I had resorted to what Catholicism calls “the last things”. The things that, at the end of ones life, would still hold. I had no time for anything temporary. So with that, the only thing that has held my consistent attention over the years had been my faith in God. And if I were only concerned with this, I needed to read a few pages in His notebook.
I had somehow neglected the fact, however, that even God became human. He took the time to invest.

The Power of Alone

I think I'd do ok with solitary confinement. I heard about the artist Bon Iver spending blocks of time on end in a cabin by himself in the woods of Wisconsin. He says it was crucial for the artistic process. I can see that. Lately, my life has lended itself to spending a lot of time on my own. Only now do I realize how far I had journeyed from the 15 year-old version of myself who would seek out solitude like blood returns to the heart. I felt as though I would suffocate without some time to aerate; some time to "spread it all out" before me, rearrange it, meditate upon it and then carefully place it all back on shelves in my heart. Certainly, that time spent "doing nothing" was hardly that, it was crucial to my development and to my sanity (see Joseph Pieper's essay "Leisure: The basis of culture")

This is what led the 15-year-old me to climb the highest tree I could find at night. Only to find a moss-covered indication that someone had the same impulse at one time. There was a wooden plank nailed between two branches about three stories up in this gigantic tree. While there, I'd be still. I'd listen to the silence as if I were gleaning the first taste of sugar after Lent.

Today, with a three-year sojourn through Toronto's urban desert behind me and about 8 nomadic dwellings in 10 years, I've rediscovered the power of alone. It opens spaces in me that have become overgrown. The soil is perfect here, so let's see what I can grow...

Fireflies alight!

I thought you might like to hear about the field of fireflies to which I was subjected over the weekend. If this moment were an indication of the things awaiting me in small town Ontario, I am one HAPPY girl, already!

Enjoy, loves.

Context: leaving a wine and cheese gathering on a balmy summer evening in Long Sault, Ontario. The air was heavy with lushness and promise; a wealth only July can afford. The neighbouring field was alight with fireflies...we couldn't resist a trespassing wander....

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JM


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Fireflies, alight!

Field of fireflies, alight!
They speak of promises unknown
To hearts except my own,
They know not their own language.

They speak of futures bright with cadence
Of nights whose simple radiance
Provide for the blue of the next day's skies.

Whose flights bumble and leap like laden hammocks,
Beholders freed of all mind's panic,
Rendering summer's burdens fair and light.

Dreams cast forward with true purpose,
Life's desires, they now surface,
Amid the fireflies alight.

Toronto's Restaurant for the Poor: Over 1 million served

One friar, one cook, one Queen Street West storefront, a dozen or so daily volunteers and 1, 000, 000 meals served: this is the math behind St. Francis’ Table in Toronto.

It’s really as simple as that. The rest flows as naturally as stories from the heart of a Newfoundlander. And for our purposes, the Newfoundlander in question is Brother John Frampton.

Brother John is an unexpected hero of the Parkdale neighborhood. Having moved to Toronto six years ago from Newfoundland to take over the post at St. Francis’ Table, Br. John is a friend to all. He has all the time in the world for stories, whether he is telling a colourful tale or lending a supportive ear. In his line of work, it tends to be the latter.

“There’s a story waiting to be told in every face we see here,” Br. John told me during our visit yesterday at St. Francis Table. Our Salt + Light crew was too early for the millionth meal by 80 servings and 4 hours (the actual millionth meal was served at dinner that night) but decidedly, we knew the millionth meal would not change anything. It would be business as usual at St. Francis table; they would serve whoever came to them with cheerful hearts.

Our team caught wind of the upcoming “commemoration” a few weeks ago and I happily took on the story. When I first called Br. John, I betrayed my distance from the cause within the first two minutes of our conversation: “We’d like to come film as you celebrate your one millionth meal,” I had said. “We don’t celebrate hunger,” came Br. John’s solemn reply, “I wish we didn’t have to mark such a milestone”. It was a sobering (and humbling) moment, as you can imagine.

As I stood off to the side waiting for the doors to open for the lunch-time influx, I took a moment to examine the friar. After taking in his black and silver “skater” sneakers and the U2 earring dangling from his left ear, I arrived at the conclusion that without the conspicuous brown capuchin habit, he really was a regular guy; a regular guy doing God’s work.

The people at St. Francis’ Table have been in operation since 1987. At that time, it was decided that the establishment would be a “restaurant for the poor”; not a soup kitchen. The difference? The patrons pay a loonie for their meal.

“It’s all about dignity,” Br. John explains from behind his desk where he welcomes the incoming crowd each day, Br. Andre-style, “paying gives them the right to complain. Their waiters are volunteers and if there is something they don’t like, they tell us. It is rare that this happens, but they have the option.”

The patrons at St. Francis Table are bursting at the seams with life and experience. At one table, I sat listening as the philosophy of democracy was being discussed in earnest, at another Christmas purchases for loved ones were being appraised. Among those present were world travelers, Ph.D. students, writers, laid-off business executives, single dads with their kids and a contingent of Tibetan immigrants practicing their English, to boot. All in a day’s work!

As we were packing our equipment into the van on the street, a passerby approached Brother John as he was seeing us off. The man asked Br. John how he could make a contribution to his work. Brother went inside to get a brochure with donating information. While he was inside, the man told us about how one day not too long ago, the streets were gridlocked because a man was threatening to jump off of the overpass. He didn’t end up jumping. In the meantime, Brother John took it upon himself to go outside and help the police to direct traffic…in his Franciscan habit. “This is the kind of guy Br. John is,” the man said, remembering the scene with a smile “he shows us that helping people should just come naturally”.

"Write a book" she said to me

and so I answered "yes".

I am writing a book. Not so much a book as a chronicling of how a heart is formed.
I am writing about what my 26 short years on this earth has afforded me in the way of lessons so far.

I'm not even sure if anyone reads this anymore because I've been so lax. I haven't given up, though. I plan on writing into a vacuum if such is my lot!

Each one of us has to be faithful to the whispering voice we hear from the moment we rise until the sun sets. when we listen, the voice is no longer faint but instead it becomes integrated into our heart. The union of the Wills. So often, we already know what it is that we have to do.

Listen to the messengers He sends to you. He loves you and He is trying to speak. In everything. Love Him by listening. You will do well to do this.

Meanwhile, I am going to write what He tells me to write. And I will not be satisfied until it is finished- whatever it is.

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A sneak peek:
(I'm only several thousand words in):


5


I lived the life of a writer before I knew I was already slotted as a writer. I find myself thinking in novels and speaking in only single words. This makes for the loneliest of lives because one is able to dream up the most, romantic, intellectual, artistic relationships that have ever existed between two human persons but yet is incapable of building one such relationship, and thus, everything and everyone seems to fall short. I am continuously in utter stupor as I behold relationships that weave through time and eventually evolve into the very thing I have created in my mind but could not bring to flower in my life. I suspect that since there are many books in the world, there must be many equally lonely people. This is my attempt at vulnerability.

But, on with the story.

I had a roommate in university whom I align perpetually in my memory with lilacs. Emily spent her summers making soap with essential oils. And even though this might be completely inaccurate, I feel like she left a river of memory and smell wherever she went. It felt as though she was a girl “who was” and not “who is”. I remember a few such people crossing my path throughout the span of my life. It seemed as though she had given up on fully embracing life and was resigned to the fact that her dreams would not be realized. She seemed like an old soul, a memory. She had stopped setting goals, she had stopped seeing her own beauty and the mysticism of her story.

At one time, I remember coming into her room in residence and sitting on her bed. She was perched there without any kind of occupation keeping her there. She had no book, she was not listening to music or watching TV. Her room was bare and spotless, a black cotton comforter was spread over her bed. The window was open and a sharp fall breeze was terrorizing her room. My eyes were drawn to the pictures neatly lining the edge of her bulletin board. I couldn’t picture her putting them there. It seemed too delicate a way for Emily to expend her energy. I couldn’t picture her gingerly affixing them, her mind brimming with nostalgia. As I knocked and entered, I realized that for the first time in my life, I had interrupted nothing. She was ready for me. She merely shifted her gaze to me as if she had been waiting all along.

Maybe I should have been creeped out by Emily, but I wasn’t. The other people in our residence either didn’t get her or they were scared of her. Either way, I knew there had to be a reason because Emily was one of the most unique attractions in our building. She listened to the Smashing Pumpkins with her black finger nails and a rosary around her wrist.

I found myself drawn into Emily’s world.

“I’m scared my Dad is going to die,” I managed to stammer before breaking down.

In moments of high intensity, I was never that gifted with keeping composure and maintaining a steady flow of words with appropriate explanations and pauses for well, breathing. In grade 12, I caught wind that an undesirable date for the prom was mustering up the courage to approach me. I knew that something had to be done because saying “no” was not a valid option. So, without skipping a beat I took my best friend at the time and corner a guy I had been crushing on since my childhood. The moment that ensued still makes me feel nauseous when I call it to mind as an adult. I literally cornered him with my best friend staring in disbelief and proceeded to blurt out-“will you go to the prom with me?” No preface. No conclusion. Unflanked inappropriateness. I can imagine his mother (whom I knew well) sitting him down and saying: “now dear, think of all that she’s been through over the past few years.” In hindsight, if I wasn’t sure then, I’m positive now that it was out of pity. I was the textbook charity case. Tall, awkward and diseased. And my father had cancer. Good ol’ terrified Carter ended up listening to his solidly formed Catholic conscience and saying yes after a few days’ consideration.

But Emily, unlike Carter, was undaunted by my inarticulateness. I instantly saw warmth roll onto her face like a comforting fog and her features softened. She warmed the room.

Our relationship sprang into existence with force in our first year of university and burrowed deeper from there. In our first conversation, Emily told me that her mom had died of cancer when she was a little girl. She never told me anything about her mom. All I remember is that she was artistic like Emily and that one time, her father bought her mom a pant-suit with a matching skirt. She put on all three pieces; the skirt over the pants. She didn’t see a problem. People would stare at her because she was an eccentric brand of beautiful.

“Have you talked to your parents since moving here?” I asked her on the way out of the meal hall in an effort to make conversation with my newest friend.

“My mom died of cancer when I was a little girl…” Emily said with not a little disappointment. I was never one for details, even those details that were more than details.

The next time I saw Emily was a year after I had graduated, at my father’s funeral.