Monday, April 21, 2014

LIVING BEAUTIFULLY




Ever more, I see that my desire for silence and solitude is a gift, perhaps the deepest gift I’ve been given. In silence, I see that no-one’s going to rescue us. No-one’s going to anaesthetize us. We don’t possess God. God possesses us.

In silence and solitude, I see that our life on earth is “a bad night spent at an uncomfortable inn,” as Teresa of Avila put it. It’s an uncomfortable inn where we never feel truly at home, and at the same time, “Lord I have loved the beauty of Thy house and the place where Thy glory dwelleth” [Ps. 26]. It’s a night at an uncomfortable inn where we prepare for eternity, where everything registers, where every day, every minute, matters. And where we are broken open, over and over again, by beauty, by love, by truth.

As Evelyn Underhill said, "It seems so much easier in these days to live morally than to live beautifully. Lots of us manage to exist for years without ever sinning against society, but we sin against loveliness every hour of the day."

THANKS FOR THE UNDERHILL QUOTE, SHUFFY! XO

Saturday, April 19, 2014

RESURRECTION MORNING


Artist Maureen White, who comprises the whole of my (Helena) Montana fan club, hand-painted these gorgeous wooden Easter eggs and sent them to me as a gift. They arrived in the mail Saturday, each individually wrapped, taped, and nestled in a bed of shredded grass-green paper. In the accompanying card, she suggested I might want to give one away and immediately I thought NO WAY. I am keeping them all... 

But seriously, I can't imagine an Easter present that would have touched and tickled me more. You can see more of Maureen's work at urbanpasturesart.com.

Holy Week always wears me out, in a good way, as it's designed to do. This year I thought Why not actually observe it, instead of writing about observing it, and have kept online activity to a minimum. So I went to Mass every day, and hung out with lots of fellow sober drunks for an hour or so every day, and more and more I see it (whatever "it" is) is all about coming alive. It's about our hearts being broken open and getting a kick out of each other and giving ourselves a break. Period. 

Oh wait, it's also about lettuce green and matte gold and madonna blue and blood red, about stars and lilies and lambs and pain deep beyond words and anxiety unto death and "allelulia" written in shiny dark blue paint edged with gold on the side of a wooden egg. And a card that says, "Thank you. Thank you for writing about God, mystery, faith, laughs, and a lot of other things."

Lately at night I see these weird red flashes at the very edge of my peripheral vision. Of course i'm convinced it's a brain tumor--I have an apptment with the opthamologist--and I'm not even angsting. In a way, death would be a gift--not that I want to die. At all. But the gift of age, if you're lucky, is you just start to see Oh, the whole thing is going to carry on. The young folk will carry it on. The sun will come up, the jacarandas will bloom every April, they're going to figure it out, somehow. How to patch things up. How to carry it on.

Even if I died tomorrow, I got to be sober. I got to rejoice that another last sheep was found. I got at least a little corner of what it means to love and not expect anything in return. "I will not let Thee go until Thou bless me." Life has blessed me and just for today, I get to let go of trying to control it. That's another gift of age--you just quit trying to control the whole thing. In fact the more alive you are, the less you want to fritter away your energy trying to control anything.

Plus, by the way, I plan on living to at least 90.

HAPPY EASTER, BEAUTIFUL PEOPLE!!!

THE LIGHTING OF THE PASCHAL CANDLE
DOWNTOWN L.A. CATHEDRAL, EASTER VIGIL



MORE SCENES FROM THE CATHEDRAL

TRADER JOE'S
DARK CHOCOLATE PEANUT BUTTER CUP.
HE IS RISEN.

Thursday, April 17, 2014

GOOD FRIDAY?


"Our error (thank God there is an error or life would be unendurable!) is that we use the word religious in a wrong way. The word religion stems from the Latin roots re, meaning again, and ligare, meaning to bind, bond, or bridge. Our common word ligature comes from the same root. Religion means, then, to bind together again. It can never be affixed to one of a pair of opposites. In the preceding discussion I have pointed out the secular versus the religious attitude. This is a flaming, flagrant error and is the seat of the most of the neurotic suffering of mankind. To think that one way of action is profane and another sacred is to make terrible misuse of the language. There is no such thing as a religious act or list of characteristics. There can only be a religious insight that bridges or heals. This is what restores and reconciles the opposites that have been torturing each of us. The religious faculty is the art of taking the opposites and binding them back together again, surmounting the split that has been causing so much suffering. It helps us move from contradiction—that painful condition where things oppose each other—to the realm of paradox, where we are able to entertain simultaneously two contradictory notions and give them equal dignity. Then, and only then, is there the possibility of grace, the spiritual experience of contradictions brought into a coherent whole—giving us a unity greater than either one of them.

To say [for example] that it is better to give than to receive is to indulge in the same kind of error that proves that 2 equals 3. To focus on one pair of opposites as 'religious' is truly a mistake. It is only the realm of synthesis that is worthy of the adjective.

We must restore the word religious to its true meaning: then it will regain its healing power. To heal, to bond, to join, to bridge, to put back together again—these are our sacred faculties."
pp. 84-85

"It is good to win; it is also good to lose. It is good to have money; it is also good to give to the poor. Freedom is good; so is the acceptance of authority. To view the elements of our life in this paradoxical manner is to open a whole new series of possibilities. Let us not say that the opposites are adverse, but that they make up divine reality that is accessible to us in our human condition. It’s incorrect to label one of a pair is secular and the other religious. We must reframe this perspective and think that each represents a divine truth. It is only our inability to see the hidden unity that is problematic. To stay loyal to paradox is to earn the right to unity. Indeed, the most valuable experience of life is this “unified” vision, the most treasured experience of mystical theology, which is achieved by surrendering to paradox. The medieval world understood this experience, which took one beyond the collision of opposites and brought one into harmony with God."
p. 88

--Robert A. Johnson, Owning Your Own Shadow


THUS WE CALL THIS "GOOD" FRIDAY
NIKOLAI GE
CRUCIFIXION

For more Easter reflections, check out my column in this week's ALETEIA: Love or Vinegar?

Tuesday, April 15, 2014

PLEA TO THE TAX MAN

ROBERT WALSER

“Permit me to inform you,” I said frankly and freely to the tax man—or high, respectable revenue official—who gave me his governmental ear in order to follow attentively the report I was about to deliver, “that I enjoy, as a poor writer or homme de lettres, a very dubious income.

“It is self-evident that you will not find in my case the tiniest bit of amassed fortune, as I here affirm with deep regret, without, however, shedding any tears over the unfortunate fact.

“Despair I do not, but just as little can I exult or rejoice. I generally get along as best I can, as they say.

“I dispense with all luxuries. A single glance at my person should tell you this. The food I eat can be described as sufficient and frugal.

“It apparently occurred to you to consider that I might have at my disposal many sources of income. I feel myself, however, compelled to oppose, courteously but decisively, this belief along with all such suppositions, and to tell the simple unadorned truth, which is, in any case, that I am extremely free from wealth, but, on the other hand, laden with every sort of poverty, as you might be so kind as to write in your notebook.

“On Sundays I may scarcely allow myself to be seen on the streets, for I have no Sunday clothes. In my steady, thrifty way of life I am like a field mouse. Even a sparrow seems to have better prospects of prosperity than thid deliverer of a report and taxpayer you see before you. I have written several books, which unfortunately were quite poorly received by the reading public, and the consequences of this oppress my heart. Not for a moment do I doubt that you understand this, and that you will consequently realize my peculiar financial situation.

“Ordinary civil status, civil esteem, etc. I by no means possess; that’s as clear as daylight. Toward men such as myself, no sense of obligation seems to exist. Exceedingly few persons profess a lively interest in literature. Besides, the pitiless criticism of our work, which any manjack thinks himself obliged to practice, constitutes yet another abundant hurt that, like a drag chain, drags down the aspirant accomplisher of a state of modest wellbeing.

“Certainly there exist amicable patrons and friendly patronesses, who subsidize the poet nobly from time to time. But a gift is far from being income, and a subsidy is surely no fortune.

“For all these I hope convincing reasons, most honored sir, I would request you kindly to overlook all the increases in taxation which you have communicated to me, and in God’s name to set your rate of taxation in my case at as low a level as possible.”

--Robert Walser, from The Walk, trans. by Christopher Middleton with Susan Bernofsky


Sunday, April 13, 2014

THE SECRET AUDEN




Here's a wonderful piece from the New York Review of Books:  "The Secret Auden" by Edward Mendelsen.

A few excerpts:

"W.H. Auden had a secret life that his closest friends knew little or nothing about. Everything about it was generous and honorable. He kept it secret because he would have been ashamed to have been praised for it."

"Someone else recalled that Auden had once been told that a friend needed a medical operation that he couldn’t afford. Auden invited the friend to dinner, never mentioned the operation, but as the friend was leaving said, “I want you to have this,” and handed him a large notebook containing the manuscript of The Age of Anxiety. The University of Texas bought the notebook and the friend had the operation."

“All the poems I have written were written for love,” [Auden] said; “naturally, when I have written one, I try to market it, but the prospect of a market played no role in its writing.”

A perfect thought with which to begin Holy Week.



"A REAL BOOK IS NOT ONE THAT WE READ,
BUT ONE THAT READS US."
W.H. AUDEN

Saturday, April 12, 2014

THE FROTHING OF THE HEDGES





Le moutonnement des haies
C’est en moi que je l’ai.

The frothing of the hedges
I keep deep inside me.
--Jean WahlPoème

Thursday, April 10, 2014

THE FRIDAY BEFORE GOOD FRIDAY


From an interview given in early February with Father Frans van der Lugt, the Superior of a monastery in the old city of Homs and a 75-year-old Dutch priest who had lived in Syria for decades, ministered to both Christians and Muslims, and was shot to death by a lone gunman on April 6, 2014.

From the Jesuit Refugee Service:

"The entirety of the Syrian crisis needs to be taken into account by world leaders to end the conflict that has killed more than 130,000 people and displaced seven million.

According to Fr Frans, what is really missing from leaders is a human understanding of those still living inside the country.

'They talk and meet in restaurants and hotels, but what we are living here is very different. They speak to us, but they don't live with us. They talk about us, but out of their own interest.'

The problem in Homs, he says, is not just about shortages of food and medicine, but also 'a hunger to lead a normal life.'

'The human being is not just a stomach, but also a heart and wants to see his relatives,' Fr Frans concludes."


From an April 4, 2014 NYT article on Army Specialist Ivan Lopez, who recently rampaged through Ft. Hood, killing three and injuring sixteen before turning the gun on himself:

"His [FB] posts in November showed him struggling with the death of his mother, Carmen Lopez, a nurse in Guayanilla [Puerto Rico] who died that month, and grappling with problems with the Army at the time of his mother’s death.

'In shock. Mom died today,' he wrote on Nov. 15. 'Thanks for your condolences. I couldn’t answer your calls,' he wrote, blaming Army bureaucracy, which he described with a vulgarity.

One law enforcement official said Specialist Lopez had told others that he should have received more time off after his mother’s death. It was apparently a source of anger for him, the official said. 'He felt like he wasn’t being treated fairly,' the official said. 'He wasn’t getting what he felt he should have been entitled to.'”

DUSK IN CAPITOLA
FAREWELL CENTRAL COAST!





Tuesday, April 8, 2014

A GREAT FAINT SOUND OF BREAKERS





SEA FOAM.
SPEND ENOUGH TIME BY YOURSELF AND THE BREAKING OF
EVEN A SMALL WAVE BEGINS TO STRIKE A PERSON AS HIGHLY THRILLING


“A great faint sound of breakers follows you high up into the inland canons; the roar of water dwells in the clean, empty rooms of Monterey as in a shell upon the chimney; go where you will, you have but to pause and listen to hear the voice of the Pacific.”

 “You follow winding sandy tracks that lead nowhither. You see a deer; a multitude of quail arises. But the sound of the sea still follows you as you advance, like that of wind among the trees, only harsher and stranger to the ear; and when at length you gain the summit, out breaks on every hand and with freshened vigour that same unending, distant, whispering rumble of the ocean; for now you are on the top of Monterey peninsula, and the noise no longer only mounts to you from behind along the beach towards Santa Cruz, but from your right also, round by Chinatown and Pinos lighthouse, and from down before you to the mouth of the Carmello river. The whole woodland is begirt with thundering surges."

--Robert Louis Stevenson, from “The Old Capitol”

I'm in Capitola, a bit up the coast, but still.



THIS WEEK'S MYSTERY FLOWER...
SOLVED!
THIS IS A LEUCADENDRON DISCOLOR 'POM POM' - POM-POM FLAME TIPS.
BUT YOU KNEW THAT, RIGHT?...
THANKS TO BILL M FOR THIS ONE.


Check out my post in this week's ALETEIA: "The Prayer that Saved My Life."



Sunday, April 6, 2014

THE HIDDEN, MISCHIEVOUS GOD



Every time I go to a new place, I make it mine by walking. I never feel properly settled until I've acquainted myself with the kind of houses people live in, the volume of birdsong, the smell of the air, the quality of light, the colors of the flowers.

Here on the Central Coast, the ice plant are in bloom--resurrection yellow, Easter egg pink--and everywhere sway lavish stands of purple Pride-of-Madeira.



"And if our whole lives have to be made subject to the Gospel of Jesus Christ, if we desire to make all his words as far as possible our guide in the circumstances of our life, this will only be possible if we make creating silence an integral part of our life."
--Servant of God Madeleine Delbrêl



 "This is where we must find the secret of that kind of will that is found among all the saints: to treat God as God, to diminish God in no way. To know at once that he surpasses all that we can say about him and that he will always therefore be for us a 'hidden' God."
--Father Bernard Bro, O.P.




"God is like a person who clears his throat while hiding and so gives himself away."

Saturday, April 5, 2014