On Acedia and Beginning Again

"You don't have acedia, because you still care. If you care enough to read a book about acedia, you don't have acedia." --A friend

I'm reading the book Acedia and Me, by Kathleen Norris. I've been meaning to read more of Norris' writing ever since I read Cloister Walk in college. Norris is a protestant writer who fell in love with Catholic liturgy and became a Benedictine Oblate. I love her because she reminds me that I am not alone in the world. When I am feeling too lazy to write, or am having trouble explaining why something moves me, reading spiritual memoir is incredibly helpful. It's necessary. The spiritual writings of women like Norris, women like Anne Lamott or Lauren Winner, give voice to my internal spiritual and emotional tensions, serving as spiritual direction when I have lost my way.

In her book, Norris defines acedia as a lack of care: a spiritual and psychological malaise that combines the worst bits of sloth and depression. I began reading this book several months ago, but put it down because the heavy tone of the book and its correspondence to my own life was too much for me to carry. Also, I was visiting Chicago at the end of winter; the season itself had succumbed to acedia. But I have taken the book up again this fall, because the topic still spoke to me. I am nearly done with it now, in the final chapter, and I am so glad to have walked with Norris thus far. She knows the things I ought to know. She knows that constant meditation on the Psalms is deep, good, sweet food for the soul. And she is incredibly gracious with herself. I mean, unbelievably. And that same graciousness has unexpectedly encouraged my Christian walk more than anything else has in a long, long time.

I have a tendency to see God as an irritated, disapproving, wrathful taskmaster, as a person waiting for me to make mistakes so he can fall out of love with me. But when I speak of these anxieties with others, with people who have walked with God more closely than I, I always get the same response: "You don't have to try so hard."

Norris quotes Evagrius, and many others who have written and lived in the monastic tradition. Have I ever mentioned that the very word monasticism draws me in with an irrepressible force? It does. Somehow, on some level, I am a monastic. It's my nature. Anyway, there is one section where she quotes an elder monk speaking to a brother on the nature of life. He says, "Brother, the monastic life is this: I rise up, and I fall down, I rise up, and I fall down, I rise up, and I fall down." 

This is an incredibly helpful statement, and it relates to Calvin's doctrine of the perseverance of the saints. Sometimes I struggle with understanding how I can lose so much ground in an area of my life that I had previously excelled in. I used to be so good at monasticism! I used to carry around a book of common prayer, and illustrate miniature manuscripts of the Psalms to hang on my walls to meditate on throughout the day. I used to shun television because I wanted only holy thoughts to be stuck in my head, and it worked, and it was well with my soul. But I have almost forgotten how to live this way, and I only sort of care.

But, Norris reminds me, the Christian life is all rising and falling. But the life of the faithful one, the one to whom Christ offers a white robe, the one who endures, is the one who continues to rise and fall. The faithful life is one which is full of new beginnings. The faithful person is one who does not give way to acedia after falling yet again into an old vice. The faithful person continually begins again. This is how I want to think of my life, and this is what I mean when I say that Norris is unbelievably, incredibly gracious. She can accept her own humanity. Isn't that beautiful?

In other news, Norris also brought to my consciousness the idea that I am not immortal. I mean, I am going to live in heaven forever with God, but first, I will die. This is actually a very refreshing thought, because it is easy for me to become discouraged in what Norris calls the "endless cycle of now," that I envision as my future. The thought that time is not an unlimited resource is difficult for me to believe, but accepting this truth is essential if I want to live free of acedia. If time is limited, then it is precious. And if time is precious, then it actually does matter how I spend it. I am re-resolving to live faithfully. Therefore I will feed on the Psalms, I will write daily, and I will always begin again.

The "cure" for acedia, as I see it, apart from therapeutic and spiritual intervention, is faithfulness. Faithfulness is just another term for beginning again. The faithful person joyfully seeks the monochromatic repetition of each day, knowing that it is in these hopelessly boring rituals that faithfulness is wrought in the soul. So I'll leave you, dear reader, with this prayer, which Norris quoted in her book:

This is another d.ay, O Lord. I know not what it will bring forth, but make me ready, Lord, for whatever it may be. If I am to stand up, help me to stand bravely. If I am to sit still, help me to sit quietly. If I am to lie low, help me to do it patiently. And if I am to do nothing, let me do it gallantly. Make these words more than words, and give me the Spirit of Jesus. Amen.

Holy Nativity: Bright Paint and Sweet Anger

God in three persons, Holy Trinity.

Well, it's Christmas Eve, and as usual, I've failed to keep this blog abreast of the progress of my Nativity Fast. I'm feeling really glad that Lent is coming up in a few months. I think, maybe, I'm getting used to the rhythm of fasting and feasting. I failed several times during this fast, and abandoned my reading plan half way through. But still, being in the general mindset of fasting was invaluable during this frenzied, noisy holiday season. I'm shockingly calm. Calm and prepared are the two words that best describe my mood this year.  I think this is due entirely to my experience of God in this fast. One day I will be good at fasting, I tell you! One day. In the meantime, I am going to learn to fight legalism and slovenly habits as I align my life to the Christian calendar.  

I'm learning things about myself this fall. Mostly, I've been learning a lot about what I picture when I use the word "home", and how far my actual home falls short of this image. I think, sometimes, I feel guilty about wanting to be comfortable. I have the personal tastes of Marie Antoinette, but I try to live like John the Baptist. This is maybe irrelevant to this post, but for me to feel at home, the walls have to be painted in bright colors. Or at least, I have to be surrounded by lots of brightly colored, beautiful things. No, the walls really, actually have to be painted in bright colors. I have tried several times in my adult life to live without this, and each time, the experiment has failed. It's always the same. I buy a few things: a colorful bedspread, a whimsical piece of artwork, and feel like I have accomplished the goal of setting up a nest for myself. But it always fails. White walls make me crazy. The earth is not my home, this is sure, but it is a place to practice living real, eternal life. I must do that in a place that feels like home. I should have painted my apartment. I should've painted, and I should've bought a lot of furniture. I am not a nomad, I am not a desert father, I am an Ayodele. And Ayodeles need their houses to be decorated like Anthropologie stores.

Also, I've learned about my general lack of assertiveness. Again, this is not a new lesson. Why must I learn everything 85 times? I hate being angry; I gravitate towards tranquility. But, as I'm human, I cannot escape human emotions. I spent a lot of time this fall, during this Nativity Fast, incensed. I wonder what the etymology of the word incensed is. Anyway, I'm learning again that it is OK to be mad, that when I am angry I cannot make myself otherwise, and that the swiftest path to righteousness is speaking the truth in love. "I feel mad when you. . ." At the moment, it is nearly impossible for me to communicate anger to another person. I fear conflict, and I fear my own ability to handle anger appropriately. But I must work on this.

What does any of this have to do with the Incarnation? Well, both of these things, colored paint and assertive language, affect my ability to feel at home in my own flesh. Since I am incarnate, I cannot live peacefully if I'm always trying to just endure ugly, glaring white paint or situations that make me angry. Sometimes you just have to work to make things better, instead of trying to survive them. This is the truth.

I think this fast has made it easier to hear God when he speaks. Maybe that is what fasting is about, telling God that you're listening. Fasting is living in a posture of listening.

Speaking of my natural inclination toward extravagance, I may at least congratulate myself on the way I observed Christmas this year. Christmas is so important to me. And I love all of it. I love the shopping, and the brass bands playing "O Come, O Come, Emmanuel" on the street corners, and the trees, and the lights, and the office holiday parties, and the presents. I cannot cut corners on Christmas. Lucky for me, I planned ahead this year. I put up my tree 2 days after Thanksgiving, ordered and sent out Christmas cards, and used an Advent Wreath. This is my first year using an Advent Wreath. I made it myself and everything. I will do it every year. I think lighting the Advent candles helped me to get a handle on the time. Isn't that what fasting is about? Getting a handle on the time? I knew exactly how many days it was until Christmas, and I was able to focus on the right things, like Love, Hope, and Joy--at least on Sundays. So, some part of my brain chose to act according to common sense this year. Hooray! I love the Advent season.

Now I need to go complete another Christmas tradition, and finish reading On the Incarnation.

Merry Christmas!

Keeping the Sabbath: The Infant Christ, Lemon Meringue Pie, and One Honorable Bird

I love Christian art. I love it the way I love monasticism, liturgy, and trees. Christian art helps me sense the reality of the depth of the faith I profess. It connects me to the Church throughout time and space. I love that I can say the words "Christian Art" and conjure up images rendered long before the advent of Thomas Kincaid. I love that people have long been using art to wrestle with and build their faith. I love that art can be prayer, worship, scholarship, and contemplation. I love that beauty and creative expression are long established components of Christian worship.

Today I stayed home from church for a solitary sabbath: I slept in, had pan au chocolat, tea, and strawberries for breakfast. I compared 4 different versions of Psalm 91: in the ESV, the Message,  the Book of Common Prayer, and the Louis Segond French translation. I re-read bits of Lauren Winner's Girl Meets God, read now in the solemn mindfulness of her latest work, Still. I tried to pray Psalm 91 for a few people I've been feeling worried about, and for myself. I asked for an increase of faith.

 "His huge outstretched arms protect you—
      under them you're perfectly safe;
      his arms fend off all harm."

"Il te couvrira de ses plumes, Et tu trouveras un refuge sous ses ailes."

"He shall defend thee under his wings, and thou shalt be safe under his feathers." 

 "He will cover you with his pinions,
    and under his wings you will find refuge."

My faith is not what it ought to be. I often find it hard to pray. I often don't want to pray, and when I do pray, I find it overwhelming; I want to stop, because there are so many things to pray for.
I went to the Norton Simon, because it's only a 30 minute walk away (I took the bus) and because I imagine myself as a person who goes to art museums all the time. It involved strolling through the water lotus gardens, watching grey-green tadpoles flit and gold-orange dragonflies gleam. It involved the kid's meal: grilled cheese and a fruit salad. It involved sunshine and shady trees and lemon meringue pie. It involved trying to pick up snippets of conversation made by French tourists (vous connaissez?). It involved an attempt at deep contemplation of Christian art.
After walking the museum over, I returned to a few paintings that especially spoke to me. I realized today that I have an official favorite painting at the Norton Simon. It is "St. Joseph and the Infant Christ", by Giovanni Battista Gaulli. I think I love this painting because it radiates relationship. The whole painting is about the deep love which exists between the Christ-Child and St. Joseph, it's beautiful because St. Joseph manifests such tender love for his adopted son. It's meaningful because it reminds me of the Book of Ruth, of the Book of Revelation, of spiritual adoption, and of God's complete and substantial love for me, his adopted daughter.

But I love this painting in a sort of ironic contrast to the rest of Christian art. I realized that the most important thing about Christian art, about beholding a Christian painting, is being made to see what is not visible.
I spent a long time looking at Francesco Bissolo's "The Annunciation", a painting which depicts Mary receiving the angel Gabriel' s words into her heart, and the Christ-Child into her womb: the birth of our salvation and the Magnificat. It's a warm and lovely painting. I stared at it for a long time before realizing that the most important visible thing in that painting is an Honorable Bird: the Holy-Spirit-as-dove hovering---radiantly and slightly---at the top of the painting. The presence and power of God is often hard to see, it is even invisible sometimes, as was the unborn Christ dwelling within Mary.

This painting struck me because, as I gazed at it, I realized that the Dove of Primal Importance, the Honorable Bird, resides in me. I am the visible element in the painting, imbued with the often intangible presence of God. Wow.

But there is one more painting which today brought me closer to the contemplation of the invisible. It's "Madonna and Child with Book" by Raffaello Sanzio.

This one, while showing the incarnate body of Christ, actually points to the eternal, invisible reality of God. Mary and the Christ-Child sit reading a prayer book. Here is Christ, the one who created Mary and the entire landscape behind them, sitting in his incarnate form, reading about his future death and resurrection. Here is God, the God who always IS, rendered in the past as a child, contemplating his own future acts. At the time of the painting, all the work of redemption had been accomplished--Christ was seated on the throne in heaven, interceding for us: it is a meditation piece concerned with the constant presence, the constant being, of God. It is eternity past, present, and future all in one. Here is Mary, teaching her son about his own nature, as he sits in her arms, the arms that he himself created as the "Firstborn of all creation". God very God, here with us as creator, redeemer, and word. Here is the description given with the painting:

"The inscription in the book introduces the ninth hour, or Nones of the Canonical Offices, recited daily by all monastic communities. The Nones commemorates Christ's Crucifixion and Death. With eyes turned to heaven, the Christ Child contemplates His own sacrifice as man's Redeemer."

I need to see Christian art. I need to present my eyes with things that invite them to believe and worship: it's so good for my soul. So today church was held in an airy museum, and the Eucharist was a slice of lemon meringue pie, imbibed under the acrylic gazes of penitents St. Francis and St. Jerome.

Tea Time in the Interior Castle

Sometimes it's hard to write. I've been meaning to come back to this stupid blog, again and again, with book reviews or spiritual musings, but it's hard. The hardest thing about living life--real, deep, pure life--is stopping still--standing still--long enough to do so. I know that if I don't write I'll die, I know that for me writing is a form of prayer.

Sometimes life is difficult. Sometimes just doing the bare minimum takes all of my strength. What do I have to say tonight? I'm not sure I know. I've been mulling over the will of God, thinking about what it means to live as God means me to live. Sometimes, it seems simple. Sometimes, I know what I'm called to do. Sometimes, I can tell somehow that God is calling me, leading me deeper into him, and that deep inside his love I will be moved to live a wild and beautiful life.

O, how I want to be pulled into the deep, deep love of God! It's much easier, much safer, much more comfortable to live in the shallows--but I can't stay here forever, because I'll die of thirst. Today I read George Mueller's words about knowing God, about how increasing in the knowledge of God is synonymous with increasing in personal happiness. To the degree that I know God I am happy. To the degree that I doubt God, I am misery personified.

I want to know God. I want to live with him in his life and die with him in his death. But sometimes this feels impossible.

Last week, as I was contemplating life, happiness, and the love of God with a dear friend, she told me that I needed to get my act together because I was supposed to be her "spiritual and wise" friend. I know that I'm supposed to be spiritual and wise. I also know that I rarely live up to this calling. It's hard to live a life of being.

I ought to live deeply. My soul was made for depth, and not breadth, stillness, and not movement. I should dwell inside the sonnet, I should hear the breathy wailing of the wind, I should see every star. My heart would keep well in a cloister.

I'm sitting here, imbibing honeydew green tea and listening to music, because, tonight, this is the closest I can bring myself to stillness, to real life.

As I look around my bedroom, I see the proof, the evidence, of who God is calling me to be. Quotations from St. Julian of Norwich, Emily Dickinson, Brennan Manning, Rumi, Mahmoud Darwish, the Psalms, Sadhu Sundar Singh, and many others line my walls. Icon valentines of St. Brigid of Ireland and Mary the Mother of God are on my mantel. A watercolor portrait of my own face, encompassed by golden halo and wings of inspiration, hangs above a bookshelf.

Looking at all of these things--congregation of word & image, delicate, brightly bound, palm-sized volumes of The Imitation of Christ and The Book of Common Prayer--I see clearly that I am meant to live the life of a contemplative. God, help me to live this life. Imbued with your spirit, sensitive to your voice, obedient and faithful, keep me aware of mystery and beauty wherever it exists. Keep me close to Love, where you are, on the other side of silence.