Somehow Spirit; and human nature

Yes, it's blurry.  It was from very far away;  I was up on a hill.  I leached all of the color out of it.  But I like it this way.  I could not tell from that far away what the bird was -- all I know is that it was white, and it was a bird of prey, and it had just left being chased by a persistent crow.  But I'm ok with not knowing, actually.  It opens the door to a more symbolic interpretation for me. 

Palm Sunday is hard, or at least weird.  It's disingenuously joyous and exuberant, because we already know our fickle ways;  we already know that in less than a week we're going to be calling for his unjust death;  we already know that we're going to give in to mob mentality, because that is the human way;  we already know that we're going to claim the consequences of our passion and our lack of foresight for our children ("let his blood be on our hands and on the hands of our children" -- What? Thanks a lot!  Speak for yourself, they say.).  So what else is new?  We keep doing this, exhibiting tragic lack of foresight, mortgaging our future generations' futures, offhandedly claiming the consequences of our actions, until those consequences start to hurt a little, and then we cry, "Yeah, but we didn't know then what we know now."  Why should we expect anything different from ourselves?  It is the human way.  And I am definitely human.  God have mercy upon me.

Tidbits from Kathleen Norris

• She talked about the writing process and the fact that it is largely made up of boring work habits.  Everyone has to face the blank page.  (The cleanest houses are those belonging to writers on a deadline [and, I would add, teachers with a load of unpleasant essays to grade].)  The voice of the mocker says, "Why bother?  Who's going to read this?"  Acedia rejects the routine.
• We all have 24 hours to live in a day.  We either see this as a blessing or as a curse (acedia).  It's a choice sometimes. 
• Dean Nelson asked her if acedia was our national disease.  She replied, "As any reader of fairy tales knows, if you have a problem and you don't know its name, you're in trouble."  She went to describe symptoms of acedia -- ennervating despair, commitment phobia, boredom...the extremes of either lethargy or workaholism.  Yep, that's American society.  She mentioned watching a CNN broadcast in which story on a search for a child sex offender was immediately followed by a story on gas prices rising -- they both had the same importance, the same urgency.  (She said, "That's why I've stopped watching tv news and started reading The Economist.  Heh.)  Pretty soon we won't know what's important anymore.
• When asked about the opposite of acedia, its corresponding virtue, she noted that the ancients regarded it as zeal, enthusiasm.  But given the misuse and associations with the word zeal nowadays, she says it's love.  If you can love, if you can be in relationship, you have defeated acedia.  Acedia says nothing matters;  love says it matters.
• "Now, more than ever, we need symbolic language."  It touches our hearts.  Metaphors reach us more than anything can.  We've tried to shield ourselves from language that makes us feel.  She used the following as an example:  In the Civil War, the post-war effect on soldiers was called "soldier's heart."  In World War I, it was called "shellshock."  In World War II, it was called "battle fatigue."  Today it's called "post-traumatic stress disorder."  It's a long way from "soldier's heart" to PTSD.  We want to shield ourselves from pain.  Norris says that when we use terms like "PTSD" outside of the medical arena, we're fooling ourselves. 
• Re: poetry -- physical chores enhance poetry.  It's the same in the monastic tradition;  repetitive physical labor helps memory.  She referred to Donald Hall, who speculates that iambic pentameter developed out of the rhythm of walking.  [Calls to mind Augustine's "Solvitur ambulando" -- "it is solved by walking."] 
• Three things are taught so badly, she says, it's a miracle any of us is still alive:  the Christian faith, poetry, and math.  Textbook poetry is some of the worst ever.  Norris (like Mary Oliver before her) notes that kids have learned by 10 or 12 that poetry is boring.  She alluded to the missed opportunities to stimulate what's there already in kids.  [And again I am forced to question my vocation as a teacher in this current broken system.]
• She speaks highly of Flannery O'Connor's The Habit of Being [which I just so happen to have on my bookshelf, awaiting the right time for reading;  perhaps it will be soon]. 
• She lamented, "In the Christian community, what separates us is more important than what unites us."  She went on to note that St. Paul was writing about this in his epistles to the various churches.  Today's divisions are nothing new;  concerning the big church blow-ups, "we've been here before."  If there's one thing that still unites us, though, it's baptism.  She said, you hear people say "I was baptized a Roman Catholic" or "as a ____."  No, you're not, she said.  You're baptized as a Christian.  Baptism is ecumenical. 
• In response to the typical question about what advice she'd give to writers and hopefuls, she said first, "Of course, you're reading a lot."  Then she advised, learn to edit and revise yourself;  love revision as much as writing.  Writers' groups can help, but learn to detect when you've fudged or overworked or overdone something.  Everyone faces the blank page.  The world doesn't care if you write. 
• When asked what do you say to people for whom acedia appears to be a daily reality, she first responded, "Commiserate.  We've all experienced it."  Secondly, anything to get them out of the closed circle of the self.  It can be something social, labor, learning something new.  Thirdly, if a person is suffering with clinical depression, send them to a doctor. 
• There are no shortcuts, only the passage through the dark nights.  There is no magic pill.  God sends us moments, people, at times.  Receive these moments gratefully.  But it's not a snap-out-of-it. 
• What to read:  Flannery O'Connor's The Habit of Being;  Emily Dickinson's poetry;  The Praktikos, by Evagrius;  the Desert Mothers and Fathers.

Delightful

Seeing Kathleen Norris at ReligBeachTownU was truly delightful, as were the fellowship and conversation with friends on the way down and back.  Got to see my favorite FeministProf, too, and ran into an old acquaintance from ImplosionChurch (knew him pre-implosion). 

I'd have to say this has been the most stimulating and learning and reflective Lent ever, and I've been observing them for over a decade now.  I am blessed beyond measure. 

Further specifics tomorrow.

It's been...

...an odd day, of convictions and of mercies, of errands and of rest, of contact and of solitude.  I did not grade this weekend, but there were more important things than grading to attend to.  I'll pay for it this week, but so be it.

Kathleen Norris's The Cloister Walk is knocking me out.  I'm going to hear her speak on Wednesday, and I'm trying to finish the book by then, but it's the kind of book that slows me down, in a good way.  I'm reading slowly, carefully, marking the margins and pondering her insights, instead of devouring it too quickly the way I normally do.  She has made me consider things about the Psalms, the book of Revelation, Emily Dickinson, God, poetry, and sin that I've not considered before.  What an amazing Lent this has been.  I know, that sounds weird. 

In other news, my conservative family and friends are sounding the death knell for the country as regards health care.  My liberal family and friends are rejoicing for the sake of justice and "doing unto the least of these."  May I be honest?  I don't what I think about it.  I don't know who's right.  I see valid points on both sides of the deep chasm.  I don't want to be angry tonight -- I'm tired of being angry about things outside of my control, because despite all my anger, nothing gets fixed -- so I'm just giving the issue up to the only One who really knows what's going on, and trusting that he will see it through as he intends for it to happen. 

Heavy, heavy burdens people are carrying;  much to pray for.  I feel like a newbie pray-er. 

Something is different.

And finally, the Mary Oliver post

The first time I was fortunate enough to see Mary Oliver read at UCLA was a couple of years ago. When I received an email from UCLA Live and saw her listed, I went online immediately and snapped up three tickets. Flanked by POM and my sister, we “mmm-ed” with the rest of the surprisingly sensitive L.A. audience every time she read a line that punched our collective gut or poked our collective heart or strummed our collective soul. We listened attentively despite the ungodly loud hearing aid whine another nearby attendee was obliviously projecting. Mary Oliver was signing books afterward, and I happily waited in a line that moved more quickly than the lines for most Disneyland rides, and had her sign my copy of Thirst. (I had two other books for POM and my sister to get signed, since they didn’t have any of her books themselves.) As she signed, I babbled my semi-planned oration of thanks…thanks for allowing her work to be used on the AP Lang exam about a decade ago, because that is how I discovered her, thanks for her amazing poetry…but with an emphasis on babble. I think I was so excited and nervous to be there in front of her, and I talked too fast and stammered over my words. She just blinked at me.

Still...

...in afterglow from last night's concert!

...of mind and heart after yoga tonight (or at least more still than I was when went in).

...a night person who doesn't want to go to bed this early, except that I have to get up at 4 a.m., which sucks.

...behind in grading (woefully).

...not doing such a great job with the daily writing, though I've started trying to journal a little in the morning, which has worked for two days, anyway.

...trying to remember to be thankful and appreciative, even if just for the small things, every day.

...planning to write about Mary Oliver and my current lenten reading.

..., I'm signing off for now. Tschuss.

Ethereal and Holy

Making one's way to the dead center of the second-to-highest row in the Walt Disney Concert Hall is a bit vertiginous at first, but once seated, the location offers the sitter the best view in the house. I wasn't so sure that it would offer the best sounds in the house, but I needn't have worried. I felt I had just the slightest inclination of what God and the angels and the fellowship of the saints must experience when the notes of praise and worship ascend from the lowly earth -- from cathedrals, churches, chapels, cells, gardens, kitchens -- wafting, winding, weaving up through a loom of air. The Anonymous 4 sang worship to Jesus and his mother tonight, and time both slowed and sped.

Hear the voice of my complaint

While many of my other Lenten rules are going just fine, the one I think I might care about the most, journaling and writing regularly, is the one I'm finding the hardest to maintain. The time change is doing an odd number on me this week; I get home and it's light enough and I have time enough...but I keep doing stupid things like falling asleep at the table or on the couch. Sigh. That's one thing I miss about the retreat; I had time enough to write for pages.

A gift: my sister called me with an extra ticket for the Anonymous 4 tomorrow night! I'm delighted. I saw the listing in the paper and lamented that I couldn't go. They are singing A Medieval Ladyamss. And I'm going. Even though it's a school night.

Retreat! (a.k.a. Run Away!)

Back from our silent Lenten retreat. It could not have come at a better time. I had just lived one of the worst weeks ever -- school really sucked last week, and I just got completely overwhelmed and had a meteoric meltdown (at home, fortunately), such that Friday I was a complete zombie. I was never so ready for a retreat.

This was my third silent retreat, and it took me more time than usual to quiet my restless mind and noisy heart. Our focus was sacred listening, and it was really an exercise in lectio divina, the ancient method of delving more deeply into scripture, and we did it through several of Jesus' parables. In addition to the guided meditations, I also continued reading, writing, and reflecting through The Cloister Walk, by Kathleen Norris, which I somehow up to this point had managed never to read. I am always amazed, even though I know it's going to happen, at the interplay and overlap of the things I'm reading, thinking about, and discussing with others. This whole weekend meshed and melded that way.

Our retreats frequently offer the opportunity for confession. I've always shuddered away from that in horror. Why would I ever want to do such a terrifying thing as telling my sins to another human being who is sitting in the same room as I am?! It's one to thing to confess to God, because God already knows the state of my heart anyway, but it's entirely another thing to tell someone who's blinking and breathing right in front of me.

I wasn't going to do it. I did not want to do it. I was feeling a push to do it. Oh darn; all of the slots were signed up for. After lunch Saturday, I felt terrible. I couldn't tell if it was what I ate, how much I ate, how quickly I ate it, or something else -- vestiges of my anger and frustration of the week? Or a different kind of blockage? I lay down for a nap, but when I woke, I did not feel any better. So I got up to walk. I grabbed my camera and headed up the hill. I didn't take a watch, so I am not sure how long I walked -- it was probably two or three hours. I walked fast, I walked slow, I stopped to take pictures, I stopped to just look, I did some yoga stretching, I prayed or I didn't, I laughed at the barking dogs, I spied on birds from hawks to hummingbirds, I enjoyed the views of hills and clouds, I luxuriated in the light and angle of the sun. I started feeling better near the end of my walk. When I returned to our silent meeting place in the library, more slots had been added to the confession sign-up list, so I signed up. I felt even better.

I did it. It was nerve-wracking . But it was useful. I have a lot to think about.

More later. The time change makes me sleepy. Oh, yeah, and so did the great conversation I had till three o'clock this morning! Back into the frying pan tomorrow. I still have a lot to say about the retreat, Kathleen Norris, Mary Oliver, Dante (of all things), and others. But not tonight.

This post...

This post
will not be
what I want it to be,
but that's ok
for now.

A week
(and half a weekend)
of grading
claimed priority,
and rightly so,
I think.

This week
I give way
to the call
of writing.

--------------

I am the bookmark maker for this year's silent Lenten retreat. Our theme is Sacred Listening, which is, of course, always timely. I found an icon of Elijah hearing the voice of the Lord -- the still, small voice of the Lord -- and I included several scriptures that have to do with listening, hearing, hearkening (yeah, I'm an old-school/KJV/poetic/Shakespearean kind of gal). But I also had to get my old favorites, Madeleine and Mary Oliver, in there, too.

None of their admonitions or reflections are terribly new --
we must listen to the silence,
listen to the Spirit,
listen to the work that is trying to be communicated through us,
listen to nature,
the birds,
the trees,
the water,
the dog,
listen to the person trying to get a word in edgewise,
close mouth and listen,
get out of the way and shut up and listen,
we have two ears and only one mouth for a reason
-- no, nothing new,
but certainly I still need to hear it (listen!).

------------

More on Mary and Madeleine, and Kathleen Norris and Dorothy Sayers (both of whom I'm reading for Lent), later in the week. I haven't forgotten my vow to write about Mary Oliver's reading. Even if no one else reads it, I need to do it for me.

Whoosh!

(The sound of time passing.) (Like crazy.) This'll be a brief one tonight. Grades are due Friday a.m., and I'm behind, as usual. Benedictine meeting tonight was uplifting. Nine p.m. night at school the night before was not uplifting, but it was productive, anyway. I'm looking forward to the weekend, if for nothing else, to sleep in and catch up on my thoughts and blogs. I'm looking forward to writing about Mary Oliver and the reading I'm doing. G'night, all.