I'm feeling rather stoic this morning because I took the time to make a salad from scratch and take it in a jar to work. Other than that, my food will be liquid today, and although that hardly makes it a true Ash Wednesday fast, it is significant enough for me. I hope to use the weeks of Lent to work toward spiritual freedom when it comes to food.
Growing food, preserving food, cooking food, and eating food were major components of my early life. Our family had little money, and I don't recall a single vacation taken away from home. But we feasted all the time. Food was our habit and solace, our celebration and creative work. I can't remember a time when eating was not an experience for me--whether I was living at home or abroad, alone in an apartment or sharing a house with others.
I believe that many women make shifts during middle age to compensate for lost sensuality. For many of us, there are no longer babies to cuddle and caress or small children to hold on laps, little-girl hair to brush and braid, afternoon projects involving cookie dough or clay or crayons. Our sex life has probably diminished, too, thanks to hormonal changes, health issues, relationships ending through death or divorce. For all the hottie middle-aged and senior models that smile across our TV and computer screens advertising sexual aids and dating sites for the mature, I see a lot more women in my age group who are in fact ill or tired or without sexual companionship.
But there's always food. At least, for those of us fortunate to have resources, there is lots of food. My nation is food-obsessed, with fast-food chains thinking up new ways every week to add one more layer of cheese or meat or sweet-salty sauce or fried bread-stuff. My husband and I made our first visit to the new Marianno's that opened on 95th St., and it was grand and clean and stocked to the rafters with everything imaginable. I stood there in awe but also horror. It is obscene how much food gets sold and bought and loaded by bagsful and then half-eaten or thrown away. It is somehow anti-justice how abundantly the food tumbles and flows in a country where so many starve for nutrition.
When you're in the middle of your life, or further in, and you have racked up many disappointments, and the worries are multiplying with the years, and you long for something to stimulate your whole self, a gourmet cupcake can provide a fantastic few moments, can it not? Bliss on a Wednesday afternoon that might help you be a little more hopeful through Thursday and Friday.
I am that woman too much of the time. I plan my week around where to find a scone and tea, or coffee and pecan roll, or a Turkish lunch or extravagant Whole Foods salad. There's the sweet on Friday after work, a reward for the week. There's the other sweet late one afternoon because it's been such a stressful, nonstop day. And could I sit through this week's episode of Downton Abbey without a pot of the best tea and something perfectly sweet to go with it? No, really, I couldn't.
I dare to wonder what aspects of abundant life I miss because I follow cravings for mere food. It's time to try to wrest myself from this spiritual yet physical kind of bondage. I don't expect to exit the Lenten season twenty pounds lighter (although that would be nice) or converted to veganism or liberated from my love of sweets. But I have to see where this goes. I will eat less of certain things, eat smaller portions of most things, and donate some of the money I save to Chicago Food Depository. It's a start.
Wednesday, February 18, 2015
Friday, September 26, 2014
A Countermove to Diving Down
I just finished reading Walter J. Ciszek's story of being a priest in Soviet prisons and Siberian labor camps for twenty-three years. The book is With God in Russia, and I highly recommend it. A real page turner and an inspiration to those of us tempted to falter in our faith or our humanity.
At one point Ciszek mentions that when he was moved to a place with better conditions--meaning that they weren't starving, were able to stay somewhat warm, and could sleep sometimes--other problems emerged. People who were not constantly obsessed with finding food and avoiding frostbite now had the luxury of reflecting on their situation. Thus there was a higher incidence of emotional disturbance, depression, and misbehavior. I guess when you are just trying to survive, you have no resources for experiencing life at any other level.
I often say that I have First-World problems. My "bad" day involves a messed-up train schedule or a blossoming sinus infection or a dangerously low bank balance. I have good problems such as writer's block or a boring workday. Sometimes I think that I get depressed because I have the luxury of sitting around and thinking about myself too much. Clinical depression is a condition of physiological as well as psychological imbalance, and I respect the seriousness of it. I'm just not at all sure that my frequent (some days I would say constant) state of depression is really that. It can be a dangerous thing to go deep into one's life. Perhaps some days it's better to live in an intentionally shallow and appetite-driven way.
My work life for just about all of my adult life has revolved around people's spiritual welfare. If I was not teaching ESL in a mission school overseas I was trying to help teenagers appreciate the art and joy of music. Since those early days, my only job has been editing books for the religion market. Is it healthy to be in that diving-down-into-the-soul place all the time? Honestly, it can become a weariness to think about divine life day in and day out. No wonder I've taken up knitting and watching too much television. I would probably drink more except that alcoholic intake exceeding two drinks makes me sick, puts me to sleep, and depresses me further still. I have used food to break up the monotony of trying to live with meaning and purpose, but that adds pounds to my hips and thighs, and let's not even go to the body-image region of depressive episodes.
While complaining about the constant badgering of a purposeful life, I know that I wouldn't last five minutes in a life that did not dive regularly into that deep-down inner place of eternal something-or-other. I'm just not built for a trivial sort of existence, even when I act, speak, and think in trivial ways. Temperament-wise, I have always needed to reflect and communicate.
Life circumstances have also pushed me toward the more contemplative life. There were no babies and small children to distract me for days at a time and prevent prayer or spiritual reading and other interior activities. I married an introvert, which makes for a comfortable life when you, yourself, are an introvert, but it also enables some of the introvert's less healthy habits, such as sitting at home rather than being engaged with life "out there" at least sometimes. We are polite introverts, so we do ask each other, "How are you?" and mean it, but of course we never press for an answer, and there are times when you need an extravert in the room to yank you into a standing position and interrogate you until you finally say out loud what's really going on in that damned deep-down region of meaning.
The mystics tell us that everything we're looking for is already here, and much of the time "here" means that personal interior place where God speaks and you listen, where you look and God hides. But it's a frustrating, devastating day when you dwell in that interior place of wonder and divine wisdom and discover that there's a lot of emptiness in there, too, And it can be an echo chamber that blasts your own stupid thoughts back to you. The deep-down place isn't enough. In fact, sometimes it's too much.
So here's the mystery. Without the diving-down practices of reflection, contemplation, prayer, and conversation, life is reduced to finding the food and staying warm. But it seems that the diving down needs a countermove, and that countermove should probably be a practice, something we do regularly. How do we break the surface? What does a good eruption look like--you know, the kind of bursting forth that releases the pent-up energies of prayer and love?
At one point Ciszek mentions that when he was moved to a place with better conditions--meaning that they weren't starving, were able to stay somewhat warm, and could sleep sometimes--other problems emerged. People who were not constantly obsessed with finding food and avoiding frostbite now had the luxury of reflecting on their situation. Thus there was a higher incidence of emotional disturbance, depression, and misbehavior. I guess when you are just trying to survive, you have no resources for experiencing life at any other level.
I often say that I have First-World problems. My "bad" day involves a messed-up train schedule or a blossoming sinus infection or a dangerously low bank balance. I have good problems such as writer's block or a boring workday. Sometimes I think that I get depressed because I have the luxury of sitting around and thinking about myself too much. Clinical depression is a condition of physiological as well as psychological imbalance, and I respect the seriousness of it. I'm just not at all sure that my frequent (some days I would say constant) state of depression is really that. It can be a dangerous thing to go deep into one's life. Perhaps some days it's better to live in an intentionally shallow and appetite-driven way.
My work life for just about all of my adult life has revolved around people's spiritual welfare. If I was not teaching ESL in a mission school overseas I was trying to help teenagers appreciate the art and joy of music. Since those early days, my only job has been editing books for the religion market. Is it healthy to be in that diving-down-into-the-soul place all the time? Honestly, it can become a weariness to think about divine life day in and day out. No wonder I've taken up knitting and watching too much television. I would probably drink more except that alcoholic intake exceeding two drinks makes me sick, puts me to sleep, and depresses me further still. I have used food to break up the monotony of trying to live with meaning and purpose, but that adds pounds to my hips and thighs, and let's not even go to the body-image region of depressive episodes.
While complaining about the constant badgering of a purposeful life, I know that I wouldn't last five minutes in a life that did not dive regularly into that deep-down inner place of eternal something-or-other. I'm just not built for a trivial sort of existence, even when I act, speak, and think in trivial ways. Temperament-wise, I have always needed to reflect and communicate.
Life circumstances have also pushed me toward the more contemplative life. There were no babies and small children to distract me for days at a time and prevent prayer or spiritual reading and other interior activities. I married an introvert, which makes for a comfortable life when you, yourself, are an introvert, but it also enables some of the introvert's less healthy habits, such as sitting at home rather than being engaged with life "out there" at least sometimes. We are polite introverts, so we do ask each other, "How are you?" and mean it, but of course we never press for an answer, and there are times when you need an extravert in the room to yank you into a standing position and interrogate you until you finally say out loud what's really going on in that damned deep-down region of meaning.
The mystics tell us that everything we're looking for is already here, and much of the time "here" means that personal interior place where God speaks and you listen, where you look and God hides. But it's a frustrating, devastating day when you dwell in that interior place of wonder and divine wisdom and discover that there's a lot of emptiness in there, too, And it can be an echo chamber that blasts your own stupid thoughts back to you. The deep-down place isn't enough. In fact, sometimes it's too much.
So here's the mystery. Without the diving-down practices of reflection, contemplation, prayer, and conversation, life is reduced to finding the food and staying warm. But it seems that the diving down needs a countermove, and that countermove should probably be a practice, something we do regularly. How do we break the surface? What does a good eruption look like--you know, the kind of bursting forth that releases the pent-up energies of prayer and love?
Thursday, September 11, 2014
You Look Like Your Mother!
In recent years, various people have told me, with great enthusiasm, how much I look like my mother. It's taken me awhile to settle into this fact. When I was a child, everyone agreed that I looked just like Dad, so I became accustomed to thinking of myself in that way. Now there's a new reality to which I must adjust, and it's been interesting to observe my own reaction to this.
Mom has always looked young for her years, and she's always been attractive. I've never considered myself attractive, just passable, and so I did not consider that I bore any resemblance to my mother. Now that she's in her seventies and looks older--although still attractive, in my opinion--when people say I look like her, I don't know if they're noticing my signs of aging or if I do in fact have some of her innate characteristics. There are moments when I'm quite proud to be seen as resembling her. But other moments, not so much. Why is that?
I know that I'm not the only woman to feel uneasy about being identified closely with her mother. It goes much deeper than looks. A friend and I were talking about how we have tended to wear clothes like those our mothers wear, and how embarrassed we are when we realize this, especially if someone else points it out. On Mom's recent visit, I found myself attentive to her gestures or the way she placed her arms across her lap, and I checked my own gestures and positioning to see if I mirrored her; at times I did. I would adjust immediately, all the while asking myself, Why does this even bother me?
And how many of us have been somewhat horrified to hear, coming out of our mouths, the phrases, verbatim, that we used to hear our mothers say?
Perhaps a daughter is especially and naturally critical of her mother, who is her first model of womanhood. As children we accept that model without question. But when we become older and attach ourselves to peer groups, one of the first people to suffer our newly formed judgments is Mom. We are desperate to fit in, and Mom represents our earlier forms, our baby-ness and our dependence. We may feel very close to Mom, but we also feel obligated to put distance in that relationship; otherwise, how can we become ourselves?
Well, I'm fifty-six years old now; I don't think Mom is going to embarrass me in front of my friends. Yet, I'm not sure I want to look like her. Maybe I'm afraid that if outward appearance is any indication, I will become like her in other ways, too. That wouldn't be a bad thing, because Mom's a wonderful person. But the insecure adolescent who still lives inside me wants to be her own person. The need to be special takes a lifetime to die, I guess.
And is it possible that my life is so easily predetermined and predictable, that so much of what I do and say and believe is the result of my years in close proximity to this particular adult? Do I fear that, thanks to my mother, my father, and others, my fate was decided long ago and I don't really determine much about who I am? Can people look at Mom and know immediately what I will be like in a few years?
Another possibility: seeing my mother age reminds me that I, too, will grow old if I don't die first. I cannot avoid this progression any more than I can avoid the physical resemblance.
I made sure Jim took this photo while Mom was visiting last week. Despite my ambivalence about looking like my mother, I want everyone to see.
Thursday, August 28, 2014
My Online Friends
It's been interesting to reconnect, mainly through Facebook, with people I knew years ago. Many of them were classmates in grammar school and/or high school. Some from college. I moved away from my hometown years ago and never went back, so I lost even the casual contact of the occasional meeting at the grocery store or shopping mall or high school graduation (now of children and grandchildren).
But now, with a few clicks, I can review a former classmate's past twenty or thirty years, see photos of children and grandchildren, family events, big occasions. I can see photos and read posts, and I like that. I don't foster the illusion that this connection is going to turn into a deep friendship because I still live in Chicago, and that person lives states away. We have our established lives and friends, and so there's no need to put pressure on this FB friendship to become more than it is.
In some ways, these reconnections add to my perspective of my own life. For instance, there's the guy I dated for awhile who has become a right-wing conservative evangelical. Actually, that describes both of us back then, but I am grateful now that the dating didn't lead to anything permanent because I am no longer that sort of believer, and that has nothing to do with the man I ended up marrying. My faith sojourn took me where I needed to go, and I suspect that, had I married back when I wanted so desperately to be married (not to that particular guy, but to others like him), the trajectory of my faith life would have led to divorce, or the marriage would have suppressed the growth I needed. Several bullets dodged there.
I also learn that one of the cool kids I would have liked to befriend but didn't because I was not cool--that person has become an ignorant racist, if certain FB posts are any indication. I learn that another popular kid has traversed a hard life that I would not have expected for such an upbeat, on-the-go teenager. Another person from my life back then has become an accomplished academic, and the trials of that childhood certainly did not point in that direction. Others have thrived, and most have sustained the normal damage of decades--illness, divorce, death of loved ones, jagged career paths.
Recently, one of my new-but-old friends on FB posted that her husband had decided to leave after a long life together. I have added my encouragement and compassion and what wisdom I can muster to the many good comments of other friends, comments that stream down the page in an overflow of concern. One of them, who lives close by, went to the other's home to spend the weekend--some girlfriend time to help the shock and pain. I went to church and vacation Bible school with both of them, and I am so proud to see the one supporting the other now at this impossible time.
In fact, it's been heartening to see how faith has held up for so many of the people I knew through church and other faith venues back then. Their posts are positive, faith-filled, good words for the world. And although I know that a lot of that comes from the parents who nurtured them and the organizations that helped form them, I also believe that the faith itself has had its own life in my girlhood friends and acquaintances. And the people they have become--the people represented by their collages of photos and posts and "shares"--are people I am proud to have known. People I still know. The online world offers yet one more arena for the communion of saints.
But now, with a few clicks, I can review a former classmate's past twenty or thirty years, see photos of children and grandchildren, family events, big occasions. I can see photos and read posts, and I like that. I don't foster the illusion that this connection is going to turn into a deep friendship because I still live in Chicago, and that person lives states away. We have our established lives and friends, and so there's no need to put pressure on this FB friendship to become more than it is.
In some ways, these reconnections add to my perspective of my own life. For instance, there's the guy I dated for awhile who has become a right-wing conservative evangelical. Actually, that describes both of us back then, but I am grateful now that the dating didn't lead to anything permanent because I am no longer that sort of believer, and that has nothing to do with the man I ended up marrying. My faith sojourn took me where I needed to go, and I suspect that, had I married back when I wanted so desperately to be married (not to that particular guy, but to others like him), the trajectory of my faith life would have led to divorce, or the marriage would have suppressed the growth I needed. Several bullets dodged there.
I also learn that one of the cool kids I would have liked to befriend but didn't because I was not cool--that person has become an ignorant racist, if certain FB posts are any indication. I learn that another popular kid has traversed a hard life that I would not have expected for such an upbeat, on-the-go teenager. Another person from my life back then has become an accomplished academic, and the trials of that childhood certainly did not point in that direction. Others have thrived, and most have sustained the normal damage of decades--illness, divorce, death of loved ones, jagged career paths.
Recently, one of my new-but-old friends on FB posted that her husband had decided to leave after a long life together. I have added my encouragement and compassion and what wisdom I can muster to the many good comments of other friends, comments that stream down the page in an overflow of concern. One of them, who lives close by, went to the other's home to spend the weekend--some girlfriend time to help the shock and pain. I went to church and vacation Bible school with both of them, and I am so proud to see the one supporting the other now at this impossible time.
In fact, it's been heartening to see how faith has held up for so many of the people I knew through church and other faith venues back then. Their posts are positive, faith-filled, good words for the world. And although I know that a lot of that comes from the parents who nurtured them and the organizations that helped form them, I also believe that the faith itself has had its own life in my girlhood friends and acquaintances. And the people they have become--the people represented by their collages of photos and posts and "shares"--are people I am proud to have known. People I still know. The online world offers yet one more arena for the communion of saints.
Thursday, August 21, 2014
Tempering Desire
I'm taking a lesson from the Pope Francis playbook. I am tempering my desires for the good life. Well, I'm trying to temper my desires for the good life. We'll see how this goes.
The pope does not take holidays because the poor don't get to take holidays. I can't find it in my heart to give up vacation, or at least the hope for a nice vacation every now and then. I find myself resentful of people who can afford to go to Tuscany for two weeks or to swim with the sea life in the Galapagos Islands. My husband and I hope to spend two weeks in Greece for our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, two summers from now. That will require careful saving, planning, and Vinita doing quite a bit of freelance work. I'm resentful that many Europeans get a month off, that this is the norm, whereas in the U.S. we have to earn our vacation time, one day at a time, for every so many years of work. The Europeans understand that down time is important to quality of life. Here in the independently minded, capitalism-obsessed USA, we are too hung up on being productive and thus we shortchange the quality-of-life aspect.
I understand why the pope does not go on holiday, but I don't think I can follow his lead in this. Maybe I should be willing to become willing.
However, lately I've decided to relax more about other matters that have caused me anxiety through the years. Such as having a nicer kitchen countertop or floor tile that doesn't show dirt so badly. Such as redoing the bathroom altogether because the rehabbers who sold us the house did a cheap, shitty job. Every time I take a shower or brush my teeth, I see the plaster coming loose because no one thought to install an exhaust fan and eventually the humidity and steam did their damage. I have to remind myself that at least I have running water, hot running water, and water that is drinkable from the tap, and the means to pay the water bill. And a toilet (well, one out of two) that works.
For years I have had this long list of things about the house that I hoped to fix or change. Not all of them are expensive, and some of them are necessary for the longevity of the house itself. But I'm going to stop being nervous about it. Somehow, we'll make the bathroom repairs we need, but I hope not to spend hours and entire weekends scouring the world for just the right tile or fixture. I won't buy the nicest material because it looks stunning; I'll buy what we can actually afford.
And I will settle down to the fact that, given our finances, it will take years to fix everything that needs fixed, and that's all right. We just need to prioritize according to the most necessary.
To a lot of people, this post won't seem significant. Some will gloss over it because they don't have the financial restraints I have--when something breaks, they just get it fixed and write the check. Others will read this post quickly and with little thought because they just don't understand how someone could become so upset over countertops and tile. Well, I have that nesting instinct; home is my base of operations in every way, and showing hospitality is important to Jim and me. So it makes sense that we want our physical home to be clean and attractive and welcoming--and there's nothing wrong with that.
But if I go through my days with a true consciousness of those in this world who are in great need, how can I not temper my desires for nice things? How can I spend days and days of time worrying about color schemes or the best mattress?
And, frankly, I have a cozy, flower-speckled back yard and a lovely big porch, which means that I can vacation quite nicely at home sometimes. I may need holiday for the health of my soul, but not a luxurious, weeks-long, out-of-country one on a regular basis. One of my former high-school classmates posted last year that she had decided to do all of her vacationing in her own region of the country, so that her vacation dollars would help the economies closest to home.
Maybe because we're getting older, Jim and I don't feel the compulsion we used to, to try out every new restaurant that comes to our attention. We don't need to eat out so frequently--not that we ever needed to. For one thing, we try to eat more simply and frugally these days, for dietary and budgetary reasons. And we have let go of any vision of ourselves as hip, cultured people. I think I wanted to be considered cultured, years ago. Now I just want to be wise. And more tempered in my desires.
The pope does not take holidays because the poor don't get to take holidays. I can't find it in my heart to give up vacation, or at least the hope for a nice vacation every now and then. I find myself resentful of people who can afford to go to Tuscany for two weeks or to swim with the sea life in the Galapagos Islands. My husband and I hope to spend two weeks in Greece for our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, two summers from now. That will require careful saving, planning, and Vinita doing quite a bit of freelance work. I'm resentful that many Europeans get a month off, that this is the norm, whereas in the U.S. we have to earn our vacation time, one day at a time, for every so many years of work. The Europeans understand that down time is important to quality of life. Here in the independently minded, capitalism-obsessed USA, we are too hung up on being productive and thus we shortchange the quality-of-life aspect.
I understand why the pope does not go on holiday, but I don't think I can follow his lead in this. Maybe I should be willing to become willing.
However, lately I've decided to relax more about other matters that have caused me anxiety through the years. Such as having a nicer kitchen countertop or floor tile that doesn't show dirt so badly. Such as redoing the bathroom altogether because the rehabbers who sold us the house did a cheap, shitty job. Every time I take a shower or brush my teeth, I see the plaster coming loose because no one thought to install an exhaust fan and eventually the humidity and steam did their damage. I have to remind myself that at least I have running water, hot running water, and water that is drinkable from the tap, and the means to pay the water bill. And a toilet (well, one out of two) that works.
For years I have had this long list of things about the house that I hoped to fix or change. Not all of them are expensive, and some of them are necessary for the longevity of the house itself. But I'm going to stop being nervous about it. Somehow, we'll make the bathroom repairs we need, but I hope not to spend hours and entire weekends scouring the world for just the right tile or fixture. I won't buy the nicest material because it looks stunning; I'll buy what we can actually afford.
And I will settle down to the fact that, given our finances, it will take years to fix everything that needs fixed, and that's all right. We just need to prioritize according to the most necessary.
To a lot of people, this post won't seem significant. Some will gloss over it because they don't have the financial restraints I have--when something breaks, they just get it fixed and write the check. Others will read this post quickly and with little thought because they just don't understand how someone could become so upset over countertops and tile. Well, I have that nesting instinct; home is my base of operations in every way, and showing hospitality is important to Jim and me. So it makes sense that we want our physical home to be clean and attractive and welcoming--and there's nothing wrong with that.
But if I go through my days with a true consciousness of those in this world who are in great need, how can I not temper my desires for nice things? How can I spend days and days of time worrying about color schemes or the best mattress?
And, frankly, I have a cozy, flower-speckled back yard and a lovely big porch, which means that I can vacation quite nicely at home sometimes. I may need holiday for the health of my soul, but not a luxurious, weeks-long, out-of-country one on a regular basis. One of my former high-school classmates posted last year that she had decided to do all of her vacationing in her own region of the country, so that her vacation dollars would help the economies closest to home.
Maybe because we're getting older, Jim and I don't feel the compulsion we used to, to try out every new restaurant that comes to our attention. We don't need to eat out so frequently--not that we ever needed to. For one thing, we try to eat more simply and frugally these days, for dietary and budgetary reasons. And we have let go of any vision of ourselves as hip, cultured people. I think I wanted to be considered cultured, years ago. Now I just want to be wise. And more tempered in my desires.
Tuesday, August 19, 2014
A Point of Stillness
Chicago's summer has been mild this year, and most evenings I sit on the backyard swing for a while and do nothing except perhaps have a glass of red wine and pet Mr. Bones the cat, who has decided that the swing is for our together time. I make a point of not "working" when we're on the swing in the evening--no strategizing for the next day, no reading or writing or problem solving. These days I am too weary to work anyway. My doctor is testing me for thyroid problems, anemia, or heart trouble because the weariness will not go away. My body feels the way it has felt in the past when I have been seriously depressed; yet, I don't think I'm depressed.
I am, though, by some power outside myself, held at a point of stillness. Some part of me cannot move and demands its rest, or retreat. And the summer sky at twilight helps in this regard. Its pale light and quiet watchfulness over my world make it seem that the universe, like me, sits in a swing somewhere, waiting. But for what?
Grim events keep erupting in the world. Their violence resounds from Syria or Iraq or the Sudan or Ferguson, Missouri, or the street a couple of blocks from here where the emergency sirens whined to a stop moments ago. The severe hurt occurring at seemingly countless locations sets itself against the atmosphere of this evening. The breath of cool breeze that comforts Mr. Bones and me exists while all these other things exist. Some evenings, I think I know what it feels like to go mad, or to give up entirely. My life is comfortable, blessed, full of love and food and good work. But some part of me is held motionless on this evening, as a hostage is detained in some dark, blank space, hoping for a good word from somewhere, anywhere.
The world has always been like this, suspended in great tension and confusion and horror and beauty. Perhaps this is why, for thousands of years, people have set themselves upon courses of prayer, meditation, and work that have a schedule and a scheme. They learned that we are prone not only to stillness that refreshes but also to a form of stillness that causes our souls to stagnate. My quiet moments on the backyard swing are, for the most part, good for me, providing some rest and contemplation and a bit of bliss at the end of the day. But nearly always now, I sense my soul being pulled down to a still place that is not helpful. It is a place to which I might remain, staked down to a tepid anxiety, a loss of thought, a lack of desire. At such times stillness is not alive and pulsing and rejuvenating; it is simple lack of motion either inward or outward. It is a type of death before death. And I think it's quite possible to be dead this way for many years and hardly recognize it because the seat is so comfortable and the air so calm.
So I think it's time to be somewhat stern with myself and map out the days, at least loosely, with times for prayer, times for specific work or creativity, and times to spend with others. St. Ignatius advised those seeking to grow spiritually to be aggressive rather than passive when the enemy of their souls made life difficult. Essentially, he said, "Now's not the time to retreat and sleep more; it's time to act and to pray more than ever." I'm beginning to understand his wisdom on this.
I am, though, by some power outside myself, held at a point of stillness. Some part of me cannot move and demands its rest, or retreat. And the summer sky at twilight helps in this regard. Its pale light and quiet watchfulness over my world make it seem that the universe, like me, sits in a swing somewhere, waiting. But for what?
Grim events keep erupting in the world. Their violence resounds from Syria or Iraq or the Sudan or Ferguson, Missouri, or the street a couple of blocks from here where the emergency sirens whined to a stop moments ago. The severe hurt occurring at seemingly countless locations sets itself against the atmosphere of this evening. The breath of cool breeze that comforts Mr. Bones and me exists while all these other things exist. Some evenings, I think I know what it feels like to go mad, or to give up entirely. My life is comfortable, blessed, full of love and food and good work. But some part of me is held motionless on this evening, as a hostage is detained in some dark, blank space, hoping for a good word from somewhere, anywhere.
The world has always been like this, suspended in great tension and confusion and horror and beauty. Perhaps this is why, for thousands of years, people have set themselves upon courses of prayer, meditation, and work that have a schedule and a scheme. They learned that we are prone not only to stillness that refreshes but also to a form of stillness that causes our souls to stagnate. My quiet moments on the backyard swing are, for the most part, good for me, providing some rest and contemplation and a bit of bliss at the end of the day. But nearly always now, I sense my soul being pulled down to a still place that is not helpful. It is a place to which I might remain, staked down to a tepid anxiety, a loss of thought, a lack of desire. At such times stillness is not alive and pulsing and rejuvenating; it is simple lack of motion either inward or outward. It is a type of death before death. And I think it's quite possible to be dead this way for many years and hardly recognize it because the seat is so comfortable and the air so calm.
So I think it's time to be somewhat stern with myself and map out the days, at least loosely, with times for prayer, times for specific work or creativity, and times to spend with others. St. Ignatius advised those seeking to grow spiritually to be aggressive rather than passive when the enemy of their souls made life difficult. Essentially, he said, "Now's not the time to retreat and sleep more; it's time to act and to pray more than ever." I'm beginning to understand his wisdom on this.
Wednesday, August 13, 2014
A Life Too Stunning to Bear
Robin Williams's death is on the minds of many of us. Not just because his departure is such a huge loss to us and a devastating blow for his family but also because most of us live closer to suicide than we generally admit. Perhaps I am not suicidal but someone I love is or has been. Or perhaps I have been and will therefore always fear, just a little bit, landing again in that dark, immovable place.
The truth is, every day, life is treacherous, and every day it is miraculous. We live constantly between these two breathtaking precipices. If you do not sense this on a fairly regular basis, then you are managing to exist without a certain level of awareness--you are not quite conscious, not really. And I realize that in making this statement I am also making a judgment, something I usually avoid. However, I have been around long enough to know that glossing over dissonance and damage is a greater failure than the occasional lapse into self-righteousness. What I am saying here is that, if you don't understand why a lovely, gifted person would take his own life, there is a whole world of reality with which you are not in touch. There is a shadowy realm of wisdom in which you do not dwell.
We walk and talk and work and breathe within moments of pain and terror. Next door someone is raped or beaten, or in our own home someone falls gravely ill or loses employment. The world is treacherous as long as adults, some of them claiming to be good, religious people, stand at our southern border and scream hatred and rejection at children who arrive already traumatized by lives we cannot imagine. The world is treacherous as long as the Israeli government oppresses and brutalizes an entire people, somehow forgetting how the Jewish people were themselves oppressed and brutalized not that many years ago. And the treachery continues in Palestinian militants who keep performing the same acts of violence, expecting different results--isn't this the definition of insanity? The world is treacherous when we destroy habitats and slaughter thousands and thousands of God's creatures because it makes us a monetary profit. The world is treacherous as long as wealthy and powerful people manipulate the circumstances and outcomes for everyone else while ignoring outright the common good. The world is treacherous as long as women and children are bought and sold, as long as people are tortured, made homeless, and ultimately wiped out because they are the wrong race or religion.
And at every moment we stand at the edge of miracle. We witness wonder every day, even when we are too blind to see it. The world is miraculous because ordinary people go to work every day and do their best and lend a hand and create good things. It's a miraculous place because species adapt to hostile environments and creatures we barely understand allow us to befriend them. The world is miraculous as long as musicians and artists and writers and actors unveil for us the interior soul and its numberless beauties. It is miraculous because scientists and engineers and philanthropists devise the most amazing schemes for improving daily life and helping us thrive in the universe. The world is miraculous because so many people have chosen to spend their lives healing creation and culture and countries. The world is miraculous as long as love endures, truth is spoken, and human life of every sort is valued.
Whether we walk within inches, within moments, of the treacherous or the miraculous, the experience itself requires everything we have. It takes energy to navigate safely in a world where evil is active in so many forms. It also requires great strength of soul to witness wonder and love and respond rightly to them. Existence requires everything from us. Some days we must bear up under pain that is actually unbearable. We must manage hope and strategy when everything falls apart. We must insist on love while withstanding the assaults of its every enemy. And when the day is gentle and we know we are loved--even then, the only true response is to love, and love--true love--expends tremendous power and purpose. Love costs us. Love demands action and awareness and vulnerability and, most of all, perseverance.
Life is not for the faint of heart or the shallow of soul. If you are awake at all, on many days you will feel the great weight of mere existence. You will be overwhelmed just to be here. You will find it quite difficult to bear the acute joy or the severe despair. Of course joy and despair are not the same. But they both make demands. Both sink into us deeply some days. And whether you are giddy with happiness or dizzy with fear, the impact can be a lot to take.
So is it any wonder that sometimes a person standing on the precipice leans too far and tumbles into the void? I think it's entirely possible for a mentally healthy person to slip off the edge if the circumstances on a particular day and hour converge just so. Add to that debilitating depression or the crazy imbalance of addiction or the hopelessness of a wasting disease . . .
What can we do? Hold on to one another. Speak up. Listen. Receive whatever love is there. This life is too stunning to bear alone.
The truth is, every day, life is treacherous, and every day it is miraculous. We live constantly between these two breathtaking precipices. If you do not sense this on a fairly regular basis, then you are managing to exist without a certain level of awareness--you are not quite conscious, not really. And I realize that in making this statement I am also making a judgment, something I usually avoid. However, I have been around long enough to know that glossing over dissonance and damage is a greater failure than the occasional lapse into self-righteousness. What I am saying here is that, if you don't understand why a lovely, gifted person would take his own life, there is a whole world of reality with which you are not in touch. There is a shadowy realm of wisdom in which you do not dwell.
We walk and talk and work and breathe within moments of pain and terror. Next door someone is raped or beaten, or in our own home someone falls gravely ill or loses employment. The world is treacherous as long as adults, some of them claiming to be good, religious people, stand at our southern border and scream hatred and rejection at children who arrive already traumatized by lives we cannot imagine. The world is treacherous as long as the Israeli government oppresses and brutalizes an entire people, somehow forgetting how the Jewish people were themselves oppressed and brutalized not that many years ago. And the treachery continues in Palestinian militants who keep performing the same acts of violence, expecting different results--isn't this the definition of insanity? The world is treacherous when we destroy habitats and slaughter thousands and thousands of God's creatures because it makes us a monetary profit. The world is treacherous as long as wealthy and powerful people manipulate the circumstances and outcomes for everyone else while ignoring outright the common good. The world is treacherous as long as women and children are bought and sold, as long as people are tortured, made homeless, and ultimately wiped out because they are the wrong race or religion.
And at every moment we stand at the edge of miracle. We witness wonder every day, even when we are too blind to see it. The world is miraculous because ordinary people go to work every day and do their best and lend a hand and create good things. It's a miraculous place because species adapt to hostile environments and creatures we barely understand allow us to befriend them. The world is miraculous as long as musicians and artists and writers and actors unveil for us the interior soul and its numberless beauties. It is miraculous because scientists and engineers and philanthropists devise the most amazing schemes for improving daily life and helping us thrive in the universe. The world is miraculous because so many people have chosen to spend their lives healing creation and culture and countries. The world is miraculous as long as love endures, truth is spoken, and human life of every sort is valued.
Whether we walk within inches, within moments, of the treacherous or the miraculous, the experience itself requires everything we have. It takes energy to navigate safely in a world where evil is active in so many forms. It also requires great strength of soul to witness wonder and love and respond rightly to them. Existence requires everything from us. Some days we must bear up under pain that is actually unbearable. We must manage hope and strategy when everything falls apart. We must insist on love while withstanding the assaults of its every enemy. And when the day is gentle and we know we are loved--even then, the only true response is to love, and love--true love--expends tremendous power and purpose. Love costs us. Love demands action and awareness and vulnerability and, most of all, perseverance.
Life is not for the faint of heart or the shallow of soul. If you are awake at all, on many days you will feel the great weight of mere existence. You will be overwhelmed just to be here. You will find it quite difficult to bear the acute joy or the severe despair. Of course joy and despair are not the same. But they both make demands. Both sink into us deeply some days. And whether you are giddy with happiness or dizzy with fear, the impact can be a lot to take.
So is it any wonder that sometimes a person standing on the precipice leans too far and tumbles into the void? I think it's entirely possible for a mentally healthy person to slip off the edge if the circumstances on a particular day and hour converge just so. Add to that debilitating depression or the crazy imbalance of addiction or the hopelessness of a wasting disease . . .
What can we do? Hold on to one another. Speak up. Listen. Receive whatever love is there. This life is too stunning to bear alone.
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