I think I might be a robot; it's impossible for me to pass the verification things to prove I'm not a robot so I must be one.
There should be an automatic pass when you don't complete the clicking on squares for more than a minute because obviously you're trying to find your glasses so you can identify all the crosswalks, cars, and storefronts in the pictures.
Or you should get an automatic pass when you fail finding all the stupid buses more than four times. Do they mean a tiny part of a bus or does it have to be an entire bus?
Sometimes I overthink things, but it is all making me pause before I click the "I am not a robot" box. Shouldn't there be another choice, like "I am a middle aged woman who can't see or figure out how to verify my identity, but you can probably hear me swearing so that should be enough" or maybe a button saying "I might be having an identity crisis and starting to think I'm a robot".
I'm now on a mission to prove I'm not a robot. Here is my plan:
1. Make more irrational choices. I think I need a few more of these to protect myself from the systematic processing of a robot so I do things that are uncomfortable and don't have a good reward. Today I went for a long hike in the pouring rain without my raincoat. No robot would do that, even though it wasn't a choice as much as I just forgot my coat. I'm pretty sure having water drip down my back into my underwear could be a verification test to prove I'm not a robot.
2. See the world without a utilitarian agenda. People and things do not exist for me to use for my personal agenda. They are not steps in my program to get me to the final result. Every being has an integrity on its own; I do not get to control or manipulate others for my machinations. I get to hang out in the mystery of being without pretending I'm in charge.
3. Take time to laugh and cry. Our ability to experience joy and pain will always set us apart from machines. Even if machines could figure out how to laugh or cry at appropriate moments, I would still have them beat because I do these things at inappropriate times, just ask anyone who has watched a movie with me.
We are not robots, consumers, work units, tax payers, electors, or plebeians (that's just too fun of a word to pass up). We are unique mysteries or as my faith tradition states, "we are beloved children of God." Maybe that could be a box to check at the end.
An inflatable row boat saw me through middle school. I lived on that thing in the middle of the faux pond in the new sub development where we lived.
I would drag my boat to the pond as well as an anchor, sail, radio, snacks, books and fishing pole. And that's how I stayed relatively sane. Nobody could call me a dork or nerd because all the popular kids lived in town and those who didn't couldn't see me hunkered with my book deep in my imaginary ocean. I loved that boat and I'm so thankful that Elijah got one for his thirteenth birthday.
That's why I carried it out camping with us this past week. I'm guessing I carried over 100 lbs at least ten miles by the end of our week camping, but it was worth it.
We all took turns on the row boat in the cove by the cabin and I got to experience one of those brief and eternal moments of pure joy. The sun was shining, the water was calm, and I was tired of rowing so I lay in the boat face first looking down into the water. It was just the kids and I and they were running around the cliffs giggling and daring each other to explore a little further. I was basking in the sun watching the jelly fish, sea anemones, and sea stars dot the water below me. And it all was perfect for that moment. All was right with the world and I was filled with beauty and joy until it was overflowing.
So I started to cry.
Naturally.
Because such moments are precious and fragile; one cannot hold onto them and everything changes.
And that's okay.
The kids started yelling for me to row over and catch them in the boat as they jumped off the rocks. That's a bad idea so instead they dove off and climbed out of the freezing water into the boat and I taxied them back to shore. They all pushed and encouraged each other to make the dive and I helped get them back safely. That's what family does on our best days.
I also started to cry this last Sunday during communion; I'm noticing a pattern. Presiding over communion is often emotional for me. I know about the struggles and brokenness people face and I place a moment of perfect love in their hands hoping it will bring some wholeness and connection. It means I absorb the fragility and changing nature of life as I place the body broken and made whole for us into outstretched hands.
It's kind of intense every Sunday, but when we're saying good bye to a slew of young adults scattering to the winds, it gets cranked up a notch. I made it through three of them, but buckled with the fourth. The tears just started flowing; one cannot hold onto them and everything changes.
Luckily, I serve a congregation where I could wipe my eyes on the sleeve of someone's shirt as they came through the communion line when tissues were not accessible. I did not blow my nose; even I know that crosses a line.
I wish I had brilliant advice and spiritual tools to survive the chances and changes of life, but right now I'm leaning heavily on time spent in an inflatable boat.
