Transitioning Trust

Winter, it turns out, is very different in Kentucky than back home. The nakedness of it is much more exposed; the death of life far more pronounced.

The story of the seasons goes a bit like this. In ancient Greece was a goddess by the name of Demeter. Demeter was a goddess of fertility—the “nourisher of the youth and the green earth, the health-giving cycle of life and death,” and is sometimes known as “the bringer of the seasons.” It was because of Demeter that the Earth was lush and alive with the life of food and beauty and glorious flowers and blooming trees and life-giving waters. Now, Demeter had a daughter named Persephone, fathered by Zeus (weren’t they all? He was a horny bastard of a god, really), but unlike many of the children of the gods, Demeter chose to keep her daughter away from the jealous, murderous, backstabbing life of the Olympian gods and hid her from any of her suitors. One day, Persephone was out frolicking around in a field picking flowers and having a grand time when suddenly the ground opened up and Hades, god of the Underworld, reached up, grabbed Persephone, and dragged her back to the Underworld with him to be his wife. When Persephone never returned to Demeter, Demeter was frantic. She neglected to care for the Earth as she became absorbed in the task of finding her daughter. As the weeks passed, the land became more and more desolate. Death slowly began to take over and in a fit of desperation over this desolation, Zeus agreed to help, finally asking Helios, the sun, what he had seen, for the sun saw everything. When Zeus finally learned the truth, he sent Hermes, the messenger to the gods, to retrieve her. But Hades would only permanently release Persephone if only she had not eaten any food in the Underworld. Either unaware of the deal or tricked, Persephone ate some seeds of a pomegranate and sealed her fate. A deal was struck and for six months of the year, Persephone spends the time above ground with her mother. During these months the land flourishes with fertility and life. For the other six months, Persephone is Queen of the Underworld, separated from her mother. Distraught during these months, Demeter neglects her power and allows the Earth to fall into a state of hibernation and disrepair. And thus, year after year, we have our cycle of seasons—the beautiful seasons of life and the forlorn seasons of death.

This, of course, is not a story of scientific fact, but one of Greek mythology, a story nearly as ancient as Greece itself.

Here in Kentucky, I find this story of mythology is much more believable. Death is so evident, and the lack of the evergreen trees I’m so used to remarkably exposes the stark nakedness of the deciduous trees that grace the land of Kentucky in abundance.

I am fascinated and a little surprised by the differences here. I expected differences, certainly, but to discover what they are is always a bit startling. The seasons, of course, are not the only elements of change that have caught me off guard.

Recently, I shared a conversation with a floormate about the philosophy around the theory that one perhaps can not truly exist—cannot truly understand who he or she is—without community. Community is necessary for growth and self-understanding and awareness. And it is also vital for understanding safety. Not the kind of safety that teaches us to look both ways before crossing the road, but the safety that teaches us how to be vulnerable.

In these last few days and weeks I have been undergoing the transition process that was put somewhat on hold during the Fall semester of classes. I am getting to know people better and I’m loosening up on the idea of picking back up the difficult but impressively rewarding work of learning who I am.

Having a community around of people we’ve come to love and trust is integral to this process. And yet? And yet. There’s always an “and yet.” And yet, there is a stark awareness that comes, I’m learning, when we leave our community. I was curious as to what would come with me to Kentucky. What were the things I’d really gained from my community at home and what would I have to offer to this new and strange place I was moving to?

Turns out I bring a long of insecurity with me and not a lot of faith. Damn. This is disappointing to realize. And yet, this might, in fact, not be all that true and simply how I feel at the moment. But leaving one’s community is an eye-opening affair. It is a step that takes great courage and faith (so maybe I have more faith than I realize), and sometimes we stumble all over ourselves, like I did this week, allowing myself to listen to the lies I’ve been taught that, to my surprise, my chaplain, yesterday, taught me were not true. I’m tempted to believe her and just might.

My world is a life of paradoxes. Most people’s are, in truth. Life is just that way. I don’t mind paradoxes and sometimes even find them to be a fun challenge, but in my life, I find there is one paradox which tends to overwhelm me at times. Past experience has taught me to be very wary of believing in people. And yet, an inherent aspect of my personality is to believe the best in people and to give them the benefit of the doubt and trust what they say.

My conversation yesterday with my chaplain was one of trust. She knows my story now, and I sort of had a moment of panic after realizing I’d just told it to someone I don’t really know. It may seem a bit of an over-reaction, but if you’d watched my story unfold as it happened, perhaps, actually, it was not so out of the ordinary and may even be expected. But I’m beginning to believe there is something about Marilyn that I can trust in in a way I’ve never seen before—in that deep-rooted, absolutely sure of who she is sort of way. In that way that I hope people can trust in me someday. She assures with a certainty that surprises me that she is very safe to trust in. And, actually, I think I believe her.

Here in Kentucky and at Asbury, I am finding a lot of people who are just as unsure of themselves as people all over the world, but then I am surprised to meet a few people, like Peg and Marilyn, who I am learning are more rock solid than anyone I’ve ever met. Community is an interesting thing. We learn incredible things from our community, and we learn vital things when we leave it and are forced to build a new one.

Transitions are like the seasons. Often we start in the summer, excited for the change and wondering what this new life will bring, and then the honeymoon is over and the reality of a new life in an unknown place with unfamiliar people kicks in. It is winter, now, here in Kentucky. The trees are mere skeletons, the wind gusts wildly at any moment of the day, and temperatures are regularly lower than I’ve ever experienced. Demeter is mourning the absence of her only daughter still yet for a few more months. But I am eager to see what will happen when Persephone makes her way out of the Underworld and back to her mother and Spring in Kentucky has arrived.

Text in the picture: Struggle, yes, but toward love and healing - deep healing and restoration - allow yourself to grieve - mystery and unlearning deepen - our winter - nothing to do but wait and sleep - weep - entrust - all that waits within you - still here. From artist Melanie Weidner, listenforjoy.com.