Don't Sh*t Where You Eat

“Don’t sh*t where you eat.” One of my favorite wisdom-quotes from the movie Moonstruck, spoken by Rose Castorini (played by Olympia Dukakis). She is just beginning to have dinner with an old professor (Perry, played by John Mahoney) who always dates a young-woman student in his classes, less for relational intimacy and more for how they admire him…until they don’t. “Then,” he says to Rose, “they stand up and throw a glass of water in my face, or something to that effect.” Rose smiles the wizened grin of a dangerous old woman—you know, the kind who knows more than you want her to?—and says, “Do you want to hear something my mother used to say? … (Perry nods) … Don’t sh*t where you eat.”

I found myself thinking upon this recently. Yes, upon the meditation cushion when I was not supposed to be thinking at all. But afterward, I felt some of the Muse come upon me for what else I might learn in the impish wisdom, the profane quip of an old woman.

For whatever reason—external timing and internal effort, internal persistence and external opportunity—I find myself in an inordinately supported and rich time of life. I have been fortunate in love, companioned and companioning of a fiercely loyal, tender-hearted man who’s good in bed (though he’d be mortified to know I’d said that aloud) and who is alternately fearful of risk and adventurous of spirit. I find myself in employment that allows me to pursue my sense of passion and mission to serve, to make some contribution both seen and unseen. I have been welcomed into multiple ‘practice-communities’ of faith, though if some of them found out about the others of them, I could be in some ‘hot water’ with political misunderstandings. But there are a few in those who know all of my companioning who persist in their listening alongside, their companionship of me, their allowance of my companionship with them. I know life won’t always be like this, and there will be times of woundedness to come—loss, suffering, and the like—but my plan is to remember and give thanks for what is, regardless. My mind may forget this fullness, and my spirit may get distracted in its hurt or fear, but my body has lodged the gifts and graces of this incredibly full, companioned path. In that sense, it never goes away. “I” never lose it, even when my ‘me’ no longer exists in the flesh.

I’m also on the threshold of some ‘internal-community’ service, methinks. My home faith community, the Presbyterian Church (USA), is now being institutionally torn asunder by polarized disagreements about sexuality, abortion, and more. Conservative congregations are voting to leave the denomination, liberal voices are both relieved and angry, hurt from the financial wrangling to come and vindictive in their (righteous) pursuits of justice for silenced voices. Surprisingly, I have little awareness of my own emotions involved in these ‘battles’ or church realities. I say little awareness because I’m suspecting there must be some sadness or anger…but perhaps I simply do not have any emotions about this at all. Perhaps I’m much more cynical than I thought, so there is little surprise at how these things are unfolding. Or perhaps…just perhaps…I’ve learned to “not shit where I eat.”

My own path of discipleship seems to have become an equilibrium-principle circle of intentional-practitioners of multiple kinds, traditions. The lessons Spirit desires to teach me do come to me with challenge and comfort, uncertainty and fear. I do make mistakes, wound companions I didn’t mean to, live into my fear instead of my best self. “Shit” in other words. But the circle of resourcing—for understanding, discernment, decision-making—never seems to be captive to only one tradition’s texts/language/worldviews. The equilibrium is flowing and multiple, not back-and-forth within one tradition, in other words. I'm a card-carrying (literally) disciple of Christ committed to serving God and the world with integrity to my vows taken within Presbyterian ministry. I review those vows yearly, attempt to serve faithfully in the capacities that match my passions. But sometimes I have felt most held by other 'circles' of practice: a Tibetan Buddhist community, then Jewish companions' practices and liturgy, then a Quaker circle. Most recently, it’s been a circle of wisdom-women who are exploring truly transformative and grounded ways of opening to Life’s embrace—in each other, in the world, for the world. I never know quite where this path will lead me, but I do know I am gifted with an intense devotion to all who have sustained my spirit amidst these years’ challenges. I don’t get to spend time with as many as I would like, but I am present with and for them all in my own practice, all the time.

An impish way to say this is that I don’t only offend the companions within my own tradition, I get to (potentially) offend companions in multiple traditions. J But the upside is that I can offer a very different kind of presence, stability, nonviolent way of being within my own tradition or community. I think there’s something to be said for Rose’s candor and wisdom for walking forward in polarized traditions or circles of practice today. The wounds will come, inevitably, upon a path of awakening, of heightened consciousness. It’s painful to see more of what we need to see, in order to truly be present within it, to change it for the better by means of our shared presence. But practicing a fluidity of spirit such that one can sense the Deeply True in logically inconsistent but relationally intimate ways Truth comes to us seems a crucial skill, to me, for us all, as the world turns round and round again.

So the question remains: how do we invite and even gently prod ‘internal-circle’ or ‘tribalist’ seekers of Life to receive the gifts of the circle and extend themselves to greater and greater circling companions outside their expectation? How do we encourage more and more to “eat at home” in a rooted community of practice, yet spread their manure around a little so that more Life may grow from the inevitable soil and nourishment human fragility provides?

Not sure of the answers there, but it’s been fun sitting with Rose Castorini for a while. She’s wise in so many ways, though wounded by her husband who is cheating on her. Perry walks her home after dinner that night, to see where she lives, perhaps to get lucky. He makes noises like he’d like to come in with her, perhaps for a little “naughty” fun. She smiles, kisses him on the cheek, and refuses. At Perry’s surprise, and a presumed understanding, she simply says, “No, I think the house is empty. I can’t invite you in because I know who I am.” Perhaps when a sense of that has arrived, one can sit with questions and woundedness yet profess without internal confusion or logical consistency that life is rich beyond measure, no matter the wounds.