You are currently browsing the Bruce Smith weblog archives for the day 30. March 2011.
30. March 2011 by BruceSmith.
CatWoman, the would-be Empress-hero?
CatWoman is an intriguing study in heroism, or at least, would-be heroism. Think about it. She has the raw material, it would appear, of a true-to-form hero. She is bright, capable, looks great in latex, wears a mask well, can run, jump and fight with the best of them. Where did she go wrong? Its a critical question for any who would seek to live in the fullness of God-given heroism.
CatWoman, we can safely assume, was born into this world with a super level of gifting. Her perceptive skills, at least early on, as well as her cat “vision” developed early. Apparently, those and other skills and gifts were derailed far too early in life. Her vision, supposedly characteristic of her very make-up, has become a distorted blindness.
As we observe her interaction with other heroes, like Batman for example, we find the markers of a life full of potential gone wrong. It comes out in her biting sarcasm, implanted no doubt, through many experiences of pain and distrust. It shows up equally in her clear bitterness and spite for the male hero ideal. Apparently, this vivacious, latex sporting, feline-vixen, has a chip on her shoulder toward the male hero species. We don’t know exactly why, but its clear.
Then there is the issue of her beauty. Dark, well put-together, stunning at first glance, her beauty quickly reveals itself a trap for prey. Abusing her beauty, and mis-using her attractive capabilities, she has clearly missed the point of true beauty and depth. In short, all her potentially good qualities, have turned to a wretched form of naked self-serving madness. This would-be hero has become the female feline form of the Empress with no clothes. Her life is a broken mirage. A spent, lonely, broken dream turned deadly to all who would cross her path.
Yet, what still somehow comes through, is the deeper longing within her to be “fixed”. We can see through the pain and defense, presented as offense, to the crying girl who longs to be made good again. Blinded to what good can unfold in life, scarred by all that has gone wrong, all she has done wrong herself, she finds her protection in a false heroism of aggression and sensuality. The truth of tenderness and grace has long since left her, and her entire personality and every interaction is colored by this truth she refuses to see. She does not know, is too scared of the pain to acknowledge, that the heroic power of grace at once helps her see her nakedness of character, and in the same moment extends healing and newness. Heroism, her only hope for it, is found in this reality check. The pain she fears, the pain which must be accepted and walked through, is the very road to her soul salvation and wholeness.
CatWoman. A frustrating paradox. She reminds me of a cat I encountered long ago. This cat, a “tweener” kitten at the time as best I can remember, was found by a friend. This friend, an entire family of friends actually, happened upon this lost and battered cat while en route to the grocery one day. Catching a glimpse of something in her peripheral vision, Charlene, the mom, saw this little dying tweener kitten lying in a ditch, just inside a drain. As she got out of her car and went closer to investigate, the scene became ominous. This little cat was cut wide open. So severe was the wound that Charlene could see it’s insides even as blood was oozing everywhere. She had a choice to make now. Would she take the risk, probably futile, of spending her time and money on this little cat who was surely to die at any moment? Or should she just let nature take its course? She chose the former. And she paid.
Charlene, not exactly resource full at the time, picked the little one up and rushed to the Vet ER. Surgeries later and a huge bill to boot, Charlene and her family had now become the owner of a strikingly beautiful, dark black, and unthinkably wounded pet. Charlene, a lover through and through, figured she would love, nurse, and provide all that was needed for this wounded and dying cat to come back to life and thrive. She expected, albeit unthinkingly, that this tween kitty would love her back and learn what it meant to be cared for. I’m sure she had visions of the two of them bounding through the house together in domestic bliss.
It did not quite turn out that way, as I recall. For untold months, years perhaps, this heroic effort of a loving caregiver was returned with coldness, biting, scratching, and outright hostility. It seemed like the more Charlene and the kids loved on the little character the more isolated and independent it became. And one did not dare advance without an invitation. Scarred from the unthinkable tragedy that had wounded previously, who knows how or why, this dark character was not coming easily to a life of domestication and familial normalcy. That reality could not even be imagined realistically, with its cat brain.
I have wondered if this is the kind of thing that presides in the life of CatWoman, catwomen, for that matter, the world over. Men, women, children, teens, many carry the same wounding and skittishness into their futures. Refusing to be “hurt again” and thereby insuring exactly that, they walk through all of life’s experiences and relationships with a deeply abiding presence of fear and fearsomeness. So foreign to them in the past, due to their own faults and those of others, was the experience of true goodness and trust, they cannot imagine being vulnerable and loving again for fear of rejection or imperfect result. To them, anything less than imagined perfection is colossal failure and abuse. The only justified response can be rage and vengeance.
Like CatWoman, these people make every relationship a challenge, and view all things through the broken lens of dysfunction and shattering pain. Nothing good can come of this. No amount of love will lift the mountain of debris. Only a corrected vision, imparted by God, taken on trust of His heroic character, will make a difference. Catwomen and men are right. People will fail them. But people will also love them. They are quick to see the loss and rarely see the victories of grace. They are programmed that way. They must learn, again, to fall upon their feet with equal dexterity amidst each scenario. That can only happen when God is trusted, others are loved, and grace presides through one’s presence rather than pain and rage. The over-reactions of abuse, fear, and fault-finding amidst their own failures must be abandoned for a view of reality more in touch with the goodness those around them seek to bring. This is the only way back to the heroic life CatWoman clearly longs for, desperately.
CatWoman. So much potential. So much pain. A hero in waiting, with few lives left. Once a lover of poetry, now a swindler of potions. If I could write her a poem and send it to her address in the land of heroes (currently residing in the neighborhood of Actor-Villans) it would read something like this…
The Cat
From the plunder of a broken jungle she crept,
Fierce, firery, forlorn,
This cat, thinking she were awake,
For years had only slept.
Running wild, jumping about,
She, roaming, fuming, playing in the night,
Had become to all inhabitants of the jungle,
A beautifully fearsome fright.
Born with a coat and a heart full of promise,
Lost and broken she became,
Giving away her heart, and soul,
She had become, somehow, wounded and lame.
From that place of haunting pain she leaps,
Day after day, night after night,
Trying desperately, continually,
to find nourishment while devouring the meat.
The prey, the play,
Neither seem to turn back the decay,
Its still a jungle inside her,
This cat knows no other way.
Domestication, sublimity, both, to her,
A false and unsatisfying dream,
For she’s trapped amidst the brush,
The blood and sweat oozes all agleam.
Knowing not where she came from,
Or, who, to her, could have been so mean,
Every would be friendly beast she encounters,
Is greeted with her defensive and grizzly scream.
Where does her tale lead,
Shall the jungle give way to a desert,
Or can she, will she,
Ever find that stream.
The stream,
Its there, outside the jungle,
Or so she’s been told,
But her vision, its been dampened, grown old.
Once, and then again,
She ventured out and took a risk,
She actually let that handsome beast come near,
But was pounded by his fist.
It is the fist that still holds her today,
Tied to this infested jungle,
Or, perhaps, it is true,
Its really the other way.
The garden, it was there,
Beside the stream,
Where she just pasted through,
But the mirage of the desert, that she embraced as true.
The vision,
That should be her strength,
She has seen so much, after-all,
And its a cat’s vision which reigns over all.
But, this, this cat, remains imprisoned,
Imprisoned in the darkness,
Even while asleep,
The darkness from within, her soul it seeks to keep.
Will the journey ever venture forward,
Will it find that lovely stream,
Will the garden bloom with roses,
Will the wounds become a seam?
Its not about the jungle,
Its obvious that should seem,
But cataracts are potent,
Hiding what others then and now have seen.
The cat, it roams, it prowls,
The jungle is getting thicker,
The river is slowing down,
The garden is abloom, waiting to be found.
It is there in the garden,
The mirage set aside,
Kindness, love, healing,
Can be brought to her gaping, bleeding side.
The lashes, they are deep it is true,
But the balm of the flowers there
More potent are they, the sages know,
Than the dripping, crying, reddish hue.
There is a balm in Gilead,
Its what will heal this cat and you,
Its always there for each of us,
It reaches our past and heals fully too.
Find your way through the jungle,
The stream is there for the few,
The few that abandon the desert,
And long for the sweetness of morning dew.
The cat must cease her daily scratching,
She must die to the law of that broken zoo,
If she is to have a future and find healing,
Vision must be restored and her seeing sighted new.
I would also tell CatWoman about that little tweener cat, once so deeply wounded, violent, and afraid. Eventually, as the years past, though the scars remained, that grown-up cat quit fighting those that loved so much. When the claws were withdrawn, the heart reopened without fear, and tenderness re-found, that cat became a super-cat, a super-lover, a thriving member of a family of grace. Life was re-imagined, proper vision was restored, and a personality was transformed. I wonder, often, if that cat remembers the very day when love drove by, stopped at that ditch, and took a risk on one nearly lost for good. Oh, for such grace and goodness of God to be revealed to, in, and for each of us. May it be accepted, embraced, responded to in kind. And to God, The SuperHero of all heroes, be the glory.
Bruce Smith
optimuslife.org
blog.optimuschoice.com
soulstormsite.com
Posted in Uncategorized | No Comments »
30. March 2011 by BruceSmith.
CatWoman, the would-be Empress-hero?
CatWoman is an intriguing study in heroism, or at least, would-be heroism. Think about it. She has the raw material, it would appear, of a true-to-form hero. She is bright, capable, looks great in latex, wears a mask well, can run, jump and fight with the best of them. Where did she go wrong? Its a critical question for any who would seek to live in the fullness of God-given heroism.
CatWoman, we can safely assume, was born into this world with a super level of gifting. Her perceptive skills, at least early on, as well as her cat “vision” developed early. Apparently, those and other skills and gifts were derailed far too early in life. Her vision, supposedly characteristic of her very make-up, has become a distorted blindness.
As we observe her interaction with other heroes, like Batman for example, we find the markers of a life full potential gone wrong. It comes out in her biting sarcasm, implanted no doubt, through many experiences of pain and distrust. It shows up equally in her clear bitterness and spite for the male hero ideal. Apparently, this vivacious, latex sporting, feline-vixen, has a chip on her shoulder toward the male hero species. We don’t know exactly why, but its clear.
Then there is the issue of her beauty. Dark, well put-together, stunning at first glance, her beauty quickly reveals itself a trap for prey. Abusing her beauty, and mis-using her attractive capabilities, she has clearly missed the point of true beauty and depth. In short, all her potentially good qualities, have turned to a wretched form of naked self-serving madness. This would-be hero has become the female feline form of the Empress with no clothes. Her life is a broken mirage. A spent, lonely, broken dream turned deadly to all who would cross her path.
Yet, what still somehow comes through, is the deeper longing within her to be “fixed”. We can see through the pain and defense, presented as offense, to the crying girl who longs to be made good again. Blinded to what good can unfold in life, scarred by all that has gone wrong, all she has done wrong herself, she finds her protection in a false heroism of aggression and sensuality. The truth of tenderness and grace has long since left her, and her entire personality and every interaction is colored by this truth she refuses to see. She does not know, is too scared of the pain to acknowledge, that the heroic power of grace at once helps her see her nakedness of character, and in the same moment extends healing and newness. Heroism, her only hope for it, is found in this reality check. The pain she fears, the pain which must be accepted and walked through, is the very road to her soul salvation and wholeness.
CatWoman. A frustrating paradox. She reminds me of a cat I encountered long ago. This cat, a “tweener” kitten at the time as best I can remember, was found by a friend. This friend, an entire family of friends actually, happened upon this lost and battered cat while en route to the grocery one day. Catching a glimpse of something in her peripheral vision, Charlene, the mom, saw this little dying tweener kitten lying in a ditch, just inside a drain. As she got out of her car and went closer to investigate, the scene became ominous. This little cat was cut wide open. So severe was the wound that Charlene could see it’s insides even as blood was oozing everywhere. She had a choice to make now. Would she take the risk, probably futile, of spending her time and money on this little cat who was surely to die at any moment? Or should she just let nature take its course? She chose the former. And she paid.
Charlene, not exactly resource full at the time, picked the little one up and rushed to the Vet ER. Surgeries later and a huge bill to boot, Charlene and her family had now become the owner of a strikingly beautiful, dark black, and unthinkably wounded pet. Charlene, a lover through and through, figured she would love, nurse, and provide all that was needed for this wounded and dying cat to come back to life and thrive. She expected, albeit unthinkingly, that this tween kitty would love her back and learn what it meant to be cared for. I’m sure she had visions of the two of them bounding through the house together in domestic bliss.
It did not quite turn out that way, as I recall. For untold months, years perhaps, this heroic effort of a loving caregiver was returned with coldness, biting, scratching, and outright hostility. It seemed like the more Charlene and the kids loved on the little character the more isolated and independent it became. And one did not dare advance without an invitation. Scarred from the unthinkable tragedy that had wounded previously, who knows how or why, this dark character was not coming easily to a life of domestication and familial normalcy. That reality could not even be imagined realistically, with its cat brain.
I have wondered if this is the kind of thing that presides in the life of CatWoman, catwomen, for that matter, the world over. Men, women, children, teens, many carry the same wounding and skittishness into their futures. Refusing to be “hurt again” and thereby insuring exactly that, they walk through all of life’s experiences and relationships with a deeply abiding presence of fear and fearsomeness. So foreign to them in the past, due to their own faults and those of others, was the experience of true goodness and trust, they cannot imagine being vulnerable and loving again for fear of rejection or imperfect result. To them, anything less than imagined perfection is colossal failure and abuse. The only justified response can be rage and vengeance.
Like CatWoman, these people make every relationship a challenge, and view all things through the broken lens of dysfunction and shattering pain. Nothing good can come of this. No amount of love will lift the mountain of debris. Only a corrected vision, imparted by God, taken on trust of His heroic character, will make a difference. Catwomen and men are right. People will fail them. But people will also love them. They are quick to see the loss and rarely see the victories of grace. They are programmed that way. They must learn, again, to fall upon their feet with equal dexterity amidst each scenario. That can only happen when God is trusted, others are loved, and grace presides through one’s presence rather than pain and rage. The over-reactions of abuse, fear, and fault-finding amidst their own failures must be abandoned for a view of reality more in touch with the goodness those around them seek to bring. This is the only way back to the heroic life CatWoman clearly longs for, desperately.
CatWoman. So much potential. So much pain. A hero in waiting, with few lives left. Once a lover of poetry, now a swindler of potions. If I could write her a poem and send it to her address in the land of heroes (currently residing in the neighborhood of Actor-Villans) it would read something like this…
The Cat
From the plunder of a broken jungle she crept,
Fierce, firery, forlorn,
This cat, thinking she were awake,
For years had only slept.
Running wild, jumping about,
She, roaming, fuming, playing in the night,
Had become to all inhabitants of the jungle,
A beautifully fearsome fright.
Born with a coat and a heart full of promise,
Lost and broken she became,
Giving away her heart, and soul,
She had become, somehow, wounded and lame.
From that place of haunting pain she leaps,
Day after day, night after night,
Trying desperately, continually,
to find nourishment while devouring the meat.
The prey, the play,
Neither seem to turn back the decay,
Its still a jungle inside her,
This cat knows no other way.
Domestication, sublimity, both, to her,
A false and unsatisfying dream,
For she’s trapped amidst the brush,
The blood and sweat oozes all agleam.
Knowing not where she came from,
Or, who, to her, could have been so mean,
Every would be friendly beast she encounters,
Is greeted with her defensive and grizzly scream.
Where does her tale lead,
Shall the jungle give way to a desert,
Or can she, will she,
Ever find that stream.
The stream,
Its there, outside the jungle,
Or so she’s been told,
But her vision, its been dampened, grown old.
Once, and then again,
She ventured out and took a risk,
She actually let that handsome beast come near,
But was pounded by his fist.
It is the fist that still holds her today,
Tied to this infested jungle,
Or, perhaps, it is true,
Its really the other way.
The garden, it was there,
Beside the stream,
Where she just pasted through,
But the mirage of the desert, that she embraced as true.
The vision,
That should be her strength,
She has seen so much, after-all,
And its a cat’s vision which reigns over all.
But, this, this cat, remains imprisoned,
Imprisoned in the darkness,
Even while asleep,
The darkness from within, her soul it seeks to keep.
Will the journey ever venture forward,
Will it find that lovely stream,
Will the garden bloom with roses,
Will the wounds become a seam?
Its not about the jungle,
Its obvious that should seem,
But cataracts are potent,
Hiding what others then and now have seen.
The cat, it roams, it prowls,
The jungle is getting thicker,
The river is slowing down,
The garden is abloom, waiting to be found.
It is there in the garden,
The mirage set aside,
Kindness, love, healing,
Can be brought to her gaping, bleeding side.
The lashes, they are deep it is true,
But the balm of the flowers there
More potent are they, the sages know,
Than the dripping, crying, reddish hue.
There is a balm in Gilead,
Its what will heal this cat and you,
Its always there for each of us,
It reaches our past and heals fully too.
Find your way through the jungle,
The stream is there for the few,
The few that abandon the desert,
And long for the sweetness of morning dew.
The cat must cease her daily scratching,
She must die to the law of that broken zoo,
If she is to have a future and find healing,
Vision must be restored and her seeing sighted new.
I would also tell CatWoman about that little tweener cat, once so deeply wounded, violent, and afraid. Eventually, as the years past, though the scars remained, that grown-up cat quit fighting those that loved so much. When the claws were withdrawn, the heart reopened without fear, and tenderness re-found, that cat became a super-cat, a super-lover, a thriving member of a family of grace. Life was re-imagined, proper vision was restored, and a personality was transformed. I wonder, often, if that cat remembers the very day when love drove by, stopped at that ditch, and took a risk on one nearly lost for good. Oh, for such grace and goodness of God to be revealed to, in, and for each of us. May it be accepted, embraced, responded to in kind. And to God, The SuperHero of all heroes, be the glory.
Bruce Smith
optimuslife.org
blog.optimuschoice.com
soulstormsite.com
Posted in Uncategorized | No Comments »