Dear Pneuma,

I am a person who lives in a crux. I am defined more by choices made at the places of interior discord, than by moments of inner harmony and peace. I seem to always stand at the place where what I want and what I believe cross one another and disagree. I do not have the gift that smoothes rough edges, or marries the separate houses of warring goals into a single, happy home. Efficiency is not my middle name.

Instead, I constantly wrestle with shadowy ethics, frozen from movement that a left turn might lead to Hell. I fret about disaster, unable to see where fear bleeds immobility into caution, and I only ever seem to decide by throwing myself at a goal and damning the consequences.

While this tactic has worked so far, it takes a lot of energy. It takes a lot of nerve. It is like throwing oneself from an airplane-it means deciding that one is OK to die. One never jumps without knowing that truth, but life is long. Though I can sometimes nerve myself to jump, other times, I do not believe I have the strength to survive the regrets: the choices not made, the ideals not martyred for, the people I leave hurt or unfulfilled.

I stand at the point where pathways cross, terrified that a step one direction will rob me of myself and my word, while convinced that a step in another direction will stifle my spirit and leave my soul sullen and worn. Yet, me being me, I thrive in the tension and will not let myself simply rest there at the point of no decision. I refuse to let fate, the winds, or even God take responsibility for my choice.

So, I think. I fret. I worry. I ponder. I hope. I analyze. I dissect. I suck the marrow from the skeletons of my future, and I wonder. I wait, curious to see where I will go, when tense apprehension gives way to passionate conviction and I finally choose to take a step.

As Ever,
Cobalt Dreams

Dear Pneuma,

I write my Beloved a poem:

How did I see a color so delicate as you?
I searched for bolder, brighter,
Angrier shades and hues.

How did I feel a sound so smooth as you?
I danced to frenzied, faster,
Seedier songs and tunes.

How did I know a scent as subtle as you?
I savored sulkier, sillkier,
Thicker herbs and rues.

Delicate, smooth, subtle,
Somehow you came to mind,
I searched, I danced, I savored,
I stopped to turn and find

A beautiful and golden soul,
Rare as hopefullness and dew
I close my eyes; I listen deep
Look inside and I find you.

-Cobalt Dreams

Dear Pneuma,

Love is such a simple thing.

I wasn't raised to be soft. Life is supposed to be hard. The most humbling experiences have been moments when I stopped being hard long enough to pay attention to the soft subtle voices around me. They are the voices speaking actions of love.

After my last letter, I worked to accept the selfish and childish nature of my discontentedness. I listened past the angry, tired, bratty voice of complaint and I heard my Beloved speaking. Suddenly, I realized that my Beloved has been hearing me. My Beloved has been quietly reassuring me and working to alleviate my sadness.

What if I hadn't stopped to listen? I might have rushed right past the true and simple things offered in order to hold onto a self-image predicated upon being hard. Thank God . . .

Love Always,
Cobalt Dreams

Dear Pneuma,

I am torn. Do I pray to be released from my selfishness, or do I pray to become blinded to it?

I caught myself in the act this morning. I caught myself wishing with ardent fervor and very real anxiety that a certain thing not happen to me, as if, by closing my eyes and saying "please no, please no," I could avert something I want to avoid. Does that kind of praying feed someone's hunger? Does that kind of wishing avert the rape; this disease; that war? Where do I get off thinking that the world shouldn't happen to me?

When did I become so selfish?

But, Pneuma, I am scared to be shown the root of my selfishness. I am afraid to look deeply at myself and find what drives that self-obsession. I am afraid of the answer I will find there. I am afraid that I won't be able to pay what it asks of me.

Holding On,
Cobalt Dreams

Dear Pneuma,

The ten best parts of the last five days:
*Touristing with my mother-in-law
*Watching the largest carousel in the world whirl
*Hearing two songs written by people I know
*Watching a Packers game in a Wisconsin Sports bar.
*Remembering my siblings
*Holding my Beloved's hand in the rain.
*Three does looking at us.
*Gas fireplaces
*Witnessing the power of roots.
*A tree with leaves that were both green and red.

Love Always,
Cobalt Dreams

Dear Pneuma,
I think, if we do not want to be liars, we should never speak of the past. I found myself a liar this week, as I received transcripts from my time at the University. For years, I have been telling people that I carried an average of 24 credit hours every semester.

I did not. I carried an average of 16 credit hours per semester. Hm. I swear, I was not trying to build myself up to more than I am. I honestly believed that more semesters than not, I had to get an override so I could carry more than 20 credits. Apparently, I only needed to do that one time. My transcripts, in green and black, prove me to be a liar.

What do I do with the revision that time makes of the past? So much that I count as revelation in my later life, is based on memories of people, places and actions in the past. The grudges I have released, as well as the forgivenesses I have embraced, rely on a memory that cannot be relied upon. This seems dangerous to me.

It seems to imply that no matter what has happened, the only truth is here and now. It seems to imply that no matter what my relationships have been, the only true statements can be made about my relationships as they are right now. Does that mean that to grieve the loss of my brother is nonsensical? After all, I grieve when I remember him. Does that mean that my memory of the way in which my first lover betrayed me is a useless piece of misinformation? After all, if I cannot accurately remember how many classes I took in school, how can I possibly accurately remember actions and events that are clouded with anger, hurt and dismay?

Can I find freedom in that? Can I truly know myself without believing in my past? What do I do in a culture that tells me to "learn from my mistakes?" How can I truly trust my decisions, if I do not allow myself to draw from my experience in the past? How do I avoid the pitfalls of dangerous and abusive relationship if I allow myself to forget the map drawn from dangerous and abusive relationships in the past?

Coming this morning from church, I have to wonder if Christianity doesn't tell us something of this. In Christ, all our past is forgiven. Christians are taught that forgiveness heals us, where retribution and jealousy will not. Many Christian traditions suggest that in Baptism, we become new people, and it seems that we are called to faithfully be made "new every morning." Perhaps, then, Christians are called to forget. Perhaps, in letting go completely of the past's fetters: of family obligations, material possessions, sorrows, injustice, attainments and most importantly fear, we will be freed to fulfill our potential as whole beings in this world.

Yet, when I juxtapose these teachings with the ritual of Communion on this World Communion Sunday, I find a mystery, because Communion relies on remembrance. More, it relies on cultural remembrance of events that no one alive had the opportunity to witness. We are taught that the ritual and meaning of Communion have been passed down the generations, since the time of Christ. We have this understanding on the word of people, speaking through their memory of the past. So, how can we possibly believe the truth of such ancient teachings, when we cannot even rely on the simple memory of how many times we had to get an override to sign up for classes?

I think, for the rest of today, and maybe for many days into the future, I will dwell on this problem: how to rely on remembrance, while forgetting the past; how to discern the difference between truth and fact, and how to experience transformation in revisiting the people, places and actions of my past, without making those memories the rigid, absolute patterns of the actual people, places and actions of the past.

Take Care of Yours.
Know I am thinking of you,
Cobalt Dreams

Dear Pneuma,

I am sorry that I haven't written for a while. I have been engaged in human interaction over the last few days. I've been playing games, conversing and going to sporting events. In short, I have been busy; good busy. What's more, I have been in change.

Going through transitions, shifting gears, changing course, or whatever metaphor one chooses, life events require a lot of energy and focus. My emotions fluctuate, my support systems get disrupted, and I engage in a kind of spiritual warfare with my past. I stop being easy. Simple decisions become life-consuming, and everyday actions, like going to the grocery store, become pure acts of will. I do not know why this is so, but I am no longer going to argue that it isn't. For me, at least, encompassing change is a difficult, energy-eating endeavor.

What I love about my grey hair, is that it is proof I have fought my way to skills that I never had before. I can stand outside my tantrums, my worries, and my actions, and let them be. I believe in myself. I no longer fear my strong emotions. I am now able to admit that I am sometimes immature and often unwise, but I know that I am going to be all right. What's more, I believe in time. I don't have to have everything figured out right now. I have plenty of time to struggle with "whys," "wherefores," and "whatnots."

I guess, Pneuma, that I want to let you know that I am all right. I'm working hard and I'm getting it together, whatever that means. It just isn't all that pretty all the time. I'm OK with that. I'm more than OK with that. Thanks for listening.

Love Always,
Cobalt Dreams