In chains

(The post title refers a boat having lost the wind and now sits idle in the water.)

I've failed my saving throw; I've gone adrift, I am forced to admit.

Those familiar with Dungeons & Dragons will recognize this as the statistical probability that a magical attack (in this case Sloth) will succeed. For the past three weeks or so, I've not written a thing in my spiritual journal. I've kept up with the readings, but only just. I've prayed, but haven't written about my experience.

The essence of the Ignatian method is colloquy--writing while praying. You are not supposed to use any other method, like mindfulness knitting, which I've been doing obsessively, therapeutically, for a couple of weeks.

My first girlfriend had a thing for balance--I've lost it. I have been more sociable with my family and have been more focused, when not knitting. This knitting is not an entire new thing; I learned when I was a teenager, at my mother's knee. Thus the practice of knitting is both soothing because it is a tactile experience, the occasional pressure of the needle points and the feel of the yarn, and because it is something positive to remember of my mother. It is something to remember. My memory plays me false. I fail to cue. It is not that I don't remember things, although that is the appearance. Once I am cued--whether by myself or others--I remember that I remember. That is the problem with my mother. She has dementia. My grandmother had it. Every time I forget something, I fear it.

The break in spiritual journalling started when I had a meltdown and was emotionally and physically exhausted for several days. Meltdown=psychiatric drama. Enough said. I've used enough energy having the (I hope) occasional temper fit.

Then we had bad weather and I was tired from having to prepare: wood on the deck (I am not the acme of fitness) and new shingles on the roof.

I lost the initiative, to use another phrase from D&D. That's my excuse.

Now the whole world knows.

A Letter to God

At this point in the retreat, after focusing on sins some more, I am to write a letter to God. Since I am stuck at home by four inches of snow resting on a thin coating of ice, I'll tell you, as well.

Do I really abhor the sinfulness in my life? I am really having trouble with this one, especially the last sentence. Of the Eight Thoughts (avarice, lust, vainglory, anger, glutton, acedia, dejection, pride), I really only suffer from three. One of them, gluttony, is surprising, given that I am thin (but with a bit of a belly). I crave and consume with great relish sweet things. If there is an alcoholic sweet thing, even better. Well, I should expand it to consuming things. If there is something, I will consume it before others get much of it. So I'd say this counts as a mortal sin. The other thoughts I deal with are acedia (not so much any more), dejection (or is it just winter-based clinical depression?), and anger (in the form of irritation at being criticized). I may have a touch of vainglory now and then, but that could be the bipolar grandiosity flaring.

Do I abhor these? I tend to think that if I truly did, I'd not be afflicted. This is paradox. It isn't possible to be totally free from sin, whatever form it takes. There are different metaphors for sin. The one I'm encountering in the retreat is contagion, contamination, I think. Terms like weeping sore lead to that kind of view? Another one, favored by my spiritual director is alienation. Sins do tend to do that, after all.

God has touched me by giving me insight into these troubling conditions. I recognize that it is inevitable that I will continue to have to cope with these or other issues, but hopefully not without benefit. Like the nails on the Cross, the sins pull at you as you struggle. Sometimes the wood hurts too.

How does the World, that which draws me away from God, influence my life and decisions? Not in the way that you would think. I am not overly distracted by cares. I am observant in both senses of the word: I see what happens and I pray about it. My Facebook experience that way. I don't just share-troll, but participate in online religious community. The way that the World influences me is by irritating in various ways. It bothers me that people (like my son) who that the only way to be a Christian is to be a fundamentalist and if you don't worship the Bible...

Ignatius says: demand the grace. One I have received--I am no longer crippled by sudden anxiety. Formerly, when faced by a household task like cleaning the refrigerator (once every few months), getting the truck stuck in the ditch, or some sudden catastrophic event, I would have this blinding flash of light behind my eyes & and an indescribable sensation (hard to process) and I would be unable to cope. Now, it is merely unpleasant. I resolved to give some vegetables decent burial, etc. I no longer dread unfortunate events. I am the same, but different in a way I can't explain.

On Hell and Sin

The Ignatian retreat seems to be focusing quite a bit on sin, with occasional references to the ultimate consequence of going to hell. I have read elsewhere that it is a purgative path. At first I thought that meant that it was apophatic, but that means refers to the ultimate unknowableness of God. Given that God's first language is silence, this makes sense. Focusing on sin is Ignatian spirituality's way of getting to the good stuff.

That said, I am having trouble with the whole notion of self as cesspool, as weeping sore. Yes, we all sin involuntarily, even those of us who try to walk a virtuous road. But as I may have said elsewhere, there is sin (or sins) and then there is Sin. Our sins add up to Sin, or we commit sins because of Sin, our essential brokenness, which alienates us from whomever we sin against, God, our neighbor, or ourselves (strange as that may sound).

But focusing on sin in this way seems to me too much like being on the pity wagon--Oh woe is me, I'm a sinner. I've sinned all over myself again. How can you make progress if you are so down on yourself? Can you tell I grew up during the self-esteem generation? 

Dwelling on sin in this way leads quite naturally to hell. The progression is an infinite one--a series of infinitesimal rejections of God. The calculus of sin; each leads to the next. You get that much farther away. Next thing you know, you're breathing your last and, wouldn't you know? there -is- an afterlife! Not what you were expecting. And you thought Facebook was bad. 

I have difficulty in believing in a place of torment after death. Hell has been defined as the absence of God. But isn't He everywhere? Stealing an idea from my spiritual director, I  maintain that it is quite possible to tune God out (just ask my son). Hell is where those people hangout. 

So how do you avoid locking God out of your life? I'd say incrementally. Start with the small "yes". Instead of saying that I'll pray later, do something now. Even if it seems like nothing. 

After all, Christ has no mouth but yours. 

Sin and Grace

This week in the Ignatian retreat, we complete "My Personal Graced History". I go over my sins and blessings. I find remembering and describing my past difficult, so this is a one pager. In this issue, I also reveal insights. I believe that I finally, last night, reached the final point on the Veltri diagram. More on this anon. I'll also talk about sin.

Now for a summary of the Veltri diagram, from his Orientations Vol 2: Part A, p. 82, if you want to look it up.

Stage one: things are going great, you have a loving awareness of God's presence. The looming cliff beckons, unseen. Stage two: transition. The rocks just before the cliff edge. It takes effort to pray--actually it seems more difficult and difficult. Stage three: desolation. You fall over the cliff. You feel like giving up because prayer seems fruitless. Job had it easy. Stage four: the beginnings of enlightenment. You survive the cliff experience. How selfish you have been; it has been all about you and not about God. The final stage: consolation. Going over the edge was actually good for you. Jesus is very personal. You are ready for stage one again.


Colloquy on Genesis 3. I am in the Garden with the first man and woman who, curiously enough, do not have names until after they sin and eat the app--I mean forbidden fruit. For all I know it was a banana; Freud would love it. Visualizing myself in their shoes, well you know what I mean--they were naked--my sin would not be disobedience or rejection of God's love, at least not directly. I would have been curious as to why I wasn't allowed and what would happen if. Would I have dissembled after? Probably. Why? Embarrassment.


No, I think the sin came not in eating the fruit, though the disobedience was bad enough, but in trying to shift the blame after. When did the sin occur? When they considered but did not reject the eating impulse? In the actual eating? After? Given that they in essence lied about their motives and cast recriminations upon God: one of his creatures tricked--beguiled in the KJV--Eve. Implied criticism of his creation, I suppose, but an honest report. I didn't know any better. Adam's error was the greater. Not because he was the man and supposedly in charge, but because he passed the buck. "The woman which you gave me."

What was God trying to tell me in this passage? From my journal:

That he wants to be reconciled. When God pronounced the "curse" to the serpent that humans would hate his kind, childbirth would be called labor for a reason, and that man would have to sweat the small stuff, was He predicting consequences or imposing them? I think it more likely the former, but I'm not a Biblical scholar. Maybe we'd still be in a state of grace if they hadn't passed the buck.

I note that my prayer time is discursive in nature. I do a lot of talking but don't seem to let God get a word in edgewise, assuming that He would speak to me auditorily. He's as likely to send me images and messages through animals.

I have a silly idea--sacramental suffering. When we suffer for no good reason, burning joints, for instance, it is benefiting someone. Mystically. Maybe that grace of a good day experienced was paid for by my aching all day? (A tip of the hat to Evelyn Underhill's the Spiritual Life.) This is contradisposed to necessary suffering, like learning how to conjugate French verbs. This is not to say I shouldn't take aspirin, but it is a grace to put up with your spouse.

Sin is breaking God's heart. Now where did that idea come from? I had always thought of sin a dark spot on a mirror, seen darkly through. Sin as contamination as opposed to erecting a barricade. Pepper spots spreading out on the surface of the water. Grace is like soap. It gets things clean. Zestfully clean. 

The Triple Colloquy--pray to the Virgin, who leads you to her Son, who then leads you to the Father. All I get this first time is the traditional imagery of a woman with a blue shawl on her head. I am concerned about my cats. One of them wants to go outside desperately and relishes rolling in the leaves and grass. I am resisting opening to the Divine. I ask the Virgin to tell me how Felix got out. The cat inadvertently(?) shows me. Going now to the Son, I feel peacefully serene. According to the Exercise, I am supposed to be focusing on what a cesspool of sin I am--a weeping ulcer. During the prayer time, I feel anything but. I do tend to wallow in it, though.

The Personal Graced History--the light of blessings & the darkness of sin. I am not able to do the topic justice in the time permitted. I can hardly remember my life, let alone details of it. I tend to have these periods of intense anxiety--mind-numbing. I traced it back to 1976, when I was thirteen and then further back to me as a small child. Then I begin to remember other experiences of my life. Good experiences.

Sorry this isn't clearer--I had a rough Thanksgiving. Drama to remember for the future.

Shame and confusion, but for what?

I still don't get it, I fear.

My colloquy sessions (done at the foot of the Cross) are more like journalling. Perhaps God is speaking in my words, as opposed to me channelling Him (I prefer to capitalize the gender-neutral male pronoun). The way it was introduced was I say something, then God does. My spiritual director disagreed: I not be afraid to put words in God's mouth. Perhaps my "prayer-as-journalling" session is OK and what my actual journal should read like is a summary. Or how I feel about what comes out, summarized. I don't know. I am at sea and not in a good way.

Insight highlights:

Passage: Lk 15:11-32 -- the Prodigal Son

We are the Prodigal, but who is the older son? According to a preacher I heard, (context: a free-food thing) it is us--the good people of the church. I guess that makes the Prodigal "sinners". Us again, in my view. Maybe the older son is unfallen angels, who might be understandably incensed at all the attention the black sheep is getting.

It doesn't matter.

In what ways have I squandered my inheritance?

My immediate answer is, Bilbo-like, time. I have wasted fifty years plus some days. What do I have to show for it? I am disabled/retired, no money except what my wife has inherited. No prestigious career. I have talents, which I can also be said to have wasted, since I make no money from them: service, the photographer's eye, and a knack for writing and proofreading (my impish Muse suggests proof-rede-ing: take no advice from a trickster). I also know things. OTOH, I have positively impacted others' (son & grandson) lives and am of good character, modulo a burble or two, like going through an inheritance or two and incurring (non-reporting) debt. Also, I am king of the nested parentheses and Oxford comma.

I tend to be absent-minded and have to work at remembering what has happened to me. Would this be because I want to forget things or is it meds-related? I have no time-date stamp. An example is remembering what happened last Sunday between 1PM and 4PM. I got out of church at 1PM because I remember looking at the bathroom clock. I (vaguely) know that we were left for a local buffet-style pizza place at 4PM. Struggling, I remember piece-meal, with difficulty, what I did in the interval. Maybe I only misappropriate time. In any case, my conclusion of the time squandering thought-loop is: I am a better human being and that is enough.

The colloquy periods are essentially me chattering with God barely able to get a word in edgewise. There is not, in my opinion, much difference between my journalling and my prayer sessions. One of the key points about prayer is not just that you talk to God, but that you shut up occasionally also. Hmm. Just had a thought. Sin is radioactive waste. You can't get rid of it. Not responsibly, any road.

Passage: Romans 7:14-25 & 5:1-11

I probably don't have much original to add to this theme of involuntary servitude to sin from which we are saved by Christ's redeeming sacrifice. There is a  disparity between my own depravity and his death. In my prayer, I get an answer, the veriest echo: I do it willingly. It is agony. We feel pain when we struggle against our own sin.

From my journal:

I am reminded of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, who died for conscience. As I recall, he was implicated in a plot to kill Hitler & executed by hanging: the short drop. Hitler as Satan incarnate or as his agent. Both deaths: cross & noose, are styled hangings. ... What sort of death do you require of me?

According to the Exercises, I am supposed to feel shame and confusion before the Cross. I'm not big on shame and confusion--it's wasting God's time. I don't know whether Ignatius dwelt on this because he was Spanish, because he was 1600s era, or because he was Roman Catholic.

I stand at the door and knock, but no one answers.

Principle and Foundation

The First Week.

The Retreat in Daily Life (RIDL or Ignatian retreat) takes place over at least thirty weeks, each being a day of the Spiritual Exercises by Ignatius of Loyola, founder of the Jesuits. The first four or five weeks were called Disposition Days, where we built ourselves up to ready for the gruelling course ahead. Our book, Draw Me Into Your Friendship, has the original style language on the left and a modern rendering on the right, which is intended to be more palatable to today's reader. I am not intimidated by 1600s style thought and sometimes find the modern rendering a bit fluffy.

I met with my spiritual advisor a week late because of a schedule conflict. I felt uncomfortable, like a student who hasn't done his homework. In a way, I hadn't. I felt guilty that I wasn't spending enough time with the work. It is supposed to be an hour a day, with one day off for good behavior. Twenty minutes reading, twenty minutes praying, twenty minutes journalling. The reading took more like ten--I was reading for content rather than for deeper meaning. I would either do Centering prayer (read the Cloud of Unknowing for more detail) or just journal. That went well and would sometimes go on for a bit more than twenty minutes. Turns out I am not supposed to do Centering Prayer, but Colloquy (which, if you remember from last week, is trying to let God speak through your writing).

Turns out it's very difficult. I spend pages feeling like I'm talking to myself. I say as much in as many words. Then out of nowhere comes the thought: God wants my heart. I resume resisting. Remember what happens when a wire resists--it gets hotter and eventually glows. Electrical resistance creates heat and is "caused" by properties of the medium that "resist" electrical flow. Poetic, ain't it? I am not supposed to judge the content--not supposed to filter. Just keep the pen moving, like a freewriting exercise.

Occasionally disturbing content, ancient memories, arise. I won't go into excruciating detail. That's what it would be for the reader, learning of my hidden bugaboos. Memories of abuse, basically. Stuff I've processed before and am surprised to keep seeing arise. This time, the memory is almost physical. I remember how it feels. The emotions/sensations I felt. The answer to my question, where was God at the time of the abuse, is that He was present, but suffering. It's all free will's fault. My abuser, whom I forgave--a liberating event--was free to act as well. Now rationally, I realize that he had issues of his own and probably thought he was acting in good will. So perhaps the fault, if there is such, lies with me. Maybe I am/was too sensitive. The victim trap, I call it. 

I keep at it. I am supposed to look "through" the Scripture passage, like it's a window. A lens, perhaps. I try staring at the page (well, it's a smart phone screen, but Dear Reader understands). Sort of zone out, disassociate. The text: Philippians 3: 7-16. I write:

For his sake I have accepted the loss of all things...to know him and the power of his resurrection & the sharing of his sufferings by being conformed to his death. What are you trying to say to me here? I am supposed to put words in God's mouth.

"You think you have lost all things? You still have your son."

I could be filtering, but I don't think that was God, as He is supposed to be gentle and not sarcastic. I am not hurt, exactly, but my bogometer registers. God seems hard to hear, sometimes I am not aware of words, exactly. Dialogue with the blank page is difficult. I have a sense of warmth in my chest. Then the cat manifests, out of nowhere, the way they do. He wants in the window but is baulked by my bedside dresser clutter. He is momentarily bipedal.

Seems like a good time to take a break, both then and now.

 

God is near and so are the cats...

You wouldn't think so, but cats can tell time. Every evening, about nine o'clock, they gather around me. Why haven't I gone in to do Ignatian retreat, they want to know. Magnus, the aloof white one with blue eyes, seems to be the spokescat. Phoebe, the Siamese, insists on kneading my arm, and Felix wants o-u-t-s-i-d-e. That's why cats sit in windows. 

The theme this week is that God loves me & cares for me. He (I use the pronoun in its gender-neutral sense) suffers. That's why I feel guilty about my faults. We haven't gotten into the sins part yet, but maybe that's just the depression talking. Perhaps there is imbalance. From my spiritual journal:

Dominant prayer feeling is a deep sadness. Compunction. I also feel, believe, that I am rather silly. Sad, really. Self-concerned. Self, self, self.

How do I die to self? All my efforts in that direction end up back to ME. There is a saying by John Climachus about this. "Before I can bind him, he is loose, before I can condemn him I am reconciled to him, before I can punish him I bow down to him and feel sorry for him." etc.

What a messed up bunch of beings. When we are up, we are down.

It is difficult to talk about yourself without a certain amount of self-reference, alas. For me, praying is like talking to myself. You can listen for a long time trying to hear what God is saying to you, because His first language is silence. 

You will notice that I use the male pronoun throughout, mostly because I am a traditionalist. I -like- Rite I. I want to bewail my manifold sins and wickedness because there is no health in me (I'm making part of that up). English doesn't have a pronoun that does God justice. When I was a Hellenic polytheist, I thought of God as They. (I don't think the Theoi are false, or demonic--I no longer worship Them, although it -is- handy to be on Hermes' good side). In my college days, I found the broody chicken imagery meaningful.

A prayer technique we are supposed to practice is Colloquy. I suck at it, at least as far as being confident that it produces answers. As you may have noticed, I like to run my mouth. To myself I talk and answer to boot. When it comes to quoting God--putting words in the divine mouth--I'm afraid of hubris. 

The next Scripture is in Jeremiah--where Yahweh is quoted as saying that he was going to make it a place of horror. The first thing that comes to mind is the Holocaust, since I am pretty sure the prophet was prophesying against Israel. My memory is not what I used to think it.

This week, my mood could be better. I seem to set Jan off, try as I may not to. We're worried about money. People are late paying us. That's the trouble with being a landlord - you are only as prosperous as your tenants. During the Jeremiah passage, I fretted about that situation. One tenant is behind, another talks about moving out because he can't pay the utilities. We helped him with the water bill, I'm not sure why. We finally got both of his issues dealt with. The other tenant will pay us next week. They are frequently behind. You can see the fretting. I'd delete this bit, but it exemplifies what my prayer life has been like. Fret fret fret.

My prayer session was mostly worrying. We, as Christians, are advised not to do so. Is it doing that when you "lay the issue before the Lord in prayer"? It helps to talk about it, I hear. That is the received wisdom about various trauma, like dealing with fearful episodes. 

The last reading is about the eschaton--Revelation. "I stand at the door and knock." Sounds occult, somehow. Doors of perception. Don't worry if that bit makes no sense. I couldn't figure it out either. Apocalyptic writing has that effect on me. Symbolic language is code. Everyone thinks that Babylon is Russia, or the US when it is in sinful mode. It's not. It's ancient Rome. Jewish writers couldn't come right out and say it or risk the cross or worse. Time for another quote.

For you say, ‘I am rich and affluent and have no need of anything,’ and yet do not realize that you are wretched, pitiable, poor, blind, and naked.

I believe (like many Americans?) that I should be self-sufficient. I feel ashamed when I am not. So I remain silent instead of asking for help. I make jests. I belittle myself. But then, where would I start? Acting helpless ain't in it, either. At our own eschaton, what will we have? Not much. Six feet or so, if our heirs can afford it. The verse goes on to tell us to buy fine gold & ointment for our eyes. See truly, speak your truths, and be free of self-deception. All our time is borrowed. 

 

Prayer Makes Free?

The theme this week (in the Ignatian retreat) is God makes us free.

We began seriously doing the examen, a way of looking over your day and seeing where you went wrong and where you went right. It’s a bit more than that, but that's it in a nutshell. You prayerfully ask for forgiveness for the bad and offer thanksgiving for the good. As a result of this process, I have developed some insight into myself, some objectivity. 

In addition to my psychotropics, I get an injection thrice monthly. It messes with my moods. Think testosterone poisoning, except that it's a low dose. The resulting volatility often takes me by surprise. This time, during an argument (fight?) with my wife, I realized that I was about to blow my top. In the past, the eruption duration and strength would be much greater. This time, I was able to limit it--I only stormed outside. I walked around the block, fuming. When I got back to the house, I was still upset, recognized it and waited until I was calm before going back inside--rational.

I've also upped an antidepressant (I take two), but I think the contemplative skills I've been learning--have they canonized Thomas Merton?--have helped me not be controlled by my moods. Talking about it also helps. Maybe this blog and the concomittant blathering on about my condition will help someone else.

The Scripture passages--Gen 22:1-19 (Abraham attempting human sacrifice), Lk 1:26-38 (the Annunciation), & Phil 3:7-16 (Paul talking about what he’s left behind and to what he’s pushing ahead).

I didn’t get much mileage out of the Genesis passage. I kept thinking of Sarah hiding in the bushes, trying to distract her husband with a ram so that she could save her son. Abraham is a homicidal maniac and Isaac is a bit simple. Strong, but simple. Or to be charitable, Abraham is overly trusting, goes a bit too far, thinks things will end up OK. God told me to kill my son. Hurm. If the angel hadn’t stopped the proceedings, would Abraham have killed his only son? Well, he did have Ishmael. I did get the possibility of the Lamb of God/Only Begotten Son trope, but not right off.

From my journal:

How do I distinguish delusion from the voice of God? Not a trivial problem, I think. How do I trust in God? What if God is asking me to sacrifice something dear, like I don't know what? What is God calling me to do? I used to think it something diaconal, but I suspect that to be mania, grandiosity.

I can't put emotions into words.

I found the Luke passage interesting. Mary dares to question. “How can this be? I am a virgin.” she asks. There has to have been some really cool special effects--lights and those awe-inducing low tones--because the angels always say “Fear not!”. Is Mary hiding laughter behind her hand? Remember that Sarah (mother of Isaac) giggled when Yahweh's angel gave her similar news. 

In the last passage, Paul talks about how the things he’s lost (status in the Jewish community because he associates with Gentiles, opposes circumcision, etc.) are as rubbish to the glory of Christ. He makes statements like these elsewhere, as well. He then talks about pressing on to becoming a possession of Christ. Not possessing, but possessed (but in a good way).

What things have I lost, memory, confidence, self-respect, and the like? Not lost as a result of becoming (or rebecoming) a Christian, but because of a mental health diagnosis. I don’t feel the flow of creativity on this topic at the moment, but there is material here. Who thinks I have lost status? Me? My wife? Have I lost status? Does someone with a mental illness--albeit controlled by medication--have the right to have status? You are only as powerful as you think you are, I suppose. Applying the diabetes standard--in mental illness, the organ affected is the brain--the answer would be yes. So why do I feel otherwise? It’s stigma. People are afraid that mental illness is contagious. See last week's article about scapegoats.

The second half of the Pauline passage talks about “being in training”, which then leads me to ponder how I should be in training and for what. More self-censorship--the continual monitoring to avoid weird behavior (can’t do much about the weird thoughts)?  Perhaps there is something, like EFM, that I should look into for the future. Perhaps it’s continuing along the Ignatian pathway. Continual self-questioning seems to be in it, for now. Is self-doubt of God? I wonder, sometimes. 

I realize that I am not free--yet.

What is Biblical leprosy?

Something that resonated was the Scripture (Luke, I think) about "the man covered in leprosy" who said to Jesus "if you want to" you can make me clean.

I'm not going to get into what the actual disease was, whether it was Hansen's disease or some other. I think leprosy here is a metaphor for Sin (with a capital S). Not sins, but the Big Enchilada. Everybody go "Ewwwwwww",  in unison. I think that the response we were intended to have. Leprosy, or any infectious disease, provoked that same reaction. Disease etymology (or do I mean etiology) was poorly understood. Disease or dis-ease was caused by little demons. Now we know that it is caused by little organisms (you knew I would go there) called germs. Modulo resistant strains, we have remedies that the ancient world did not. Rather, more effective, more humane than ostracism or indeed pistachios, which is what autocorrect would insist upon. (Sorry, I couldn't resist. )

So what makes us go Ewww? It varies. Google pharmakos. For the lazy among us, I'll define it. Scapegoat, in a word. The pharmakos,  from which root we get pharmaceuticals etc, was that poor unfortunate who was selected as the "author of all our ills" and ended up being killed, usually fairly nastily. Made society feel so much better.

Modern pharmakoi include: the Jews (in certain unrespectable circles), the mentally ill (why can't we just conform), communists (back in the 50s), terrorists, and bullies. These are all groups which have exercised the imaginations of people afraid of the dark. Why are we afraid of the dark? Because of what is in it. I wander off topic, but I think it has something to do with death.

In my (private) Ignatian retreat rant, I made much of how icky homeless people are. As Christians (of whatever flavor), we are not supposed to feel this way, but I almost think society can't function without -somebody- to fill this role. We strive to move people out of the pharmakoi position, but other groups fall into that niche. We talk about feeding the homeless, but we should really bathe and groom them and find more comfortable places for them. Sleeping in park benches is not pleasant. We need to do more.

Perhaps we should build more prisons. Not.

The boogeyman gets a lot less scary when we can laugh. Maybe we don't need to be afraid.  Death -is- inevitable, after all.

And, after a respite...

The Muse has been silent of late, but I am encouraged by the blogging of a friend to start up my blog to address my particular issues. I don't claim to have a special relationship with God or whatever - this soapbox is mine alone. How's that for a bit of free writing? Non sequiturs are my worst enemas.

I had started this blog with a spirito-religio slant, with perhaps an emphasis on acedia (a $10 word meaning laziness), but since I am also blessed with the "dangerous gift" of a mental health diagnosis (while it does have aspects of a chronic illness, I also have a creative - perhaps annoying to you neurotypicals - personality).

My specific diagnosis is schizoaffective disorder. I also suffer from anxiety, both chronic and acute. To those of you not familiar with the DSM (is it IV or V now?), this is a combination of schizophrenia and manic depression. My wife also thinks I am on the autistic spectrum. Perhaps a bit of OCD? That bit of anxiety might explain some things: when money is tight, I really want another book. But I can quit any time I want, you understand. Bibliomania means never having to worry about having something to read.

I will be presenting insights from the Ignatian retreat (Retreat In Daily Life) that I am participating in is a drawn-out version of Ignatius' Spiritual Exercises. Instead of taking thirty days, it takes thirty weeks. Each day has a Scripture passage, a meditative/prayer session, and a spot of journaling. Every two weeks, I meet with a spiritual director.

The first bit has us understanding how much God loves us, but at the same time, we are nothing (but in a good way,  you understand). Also, God is inescapable, like a (perhaps persistently unwanted) lover. This is perhaps more obvious in the mystical writers like St John of the Cross & Teresa of Avila.

I got hooked on religious writing last Lent, but I can stop anytime I like.

On irritation

In line with my earlier obsession about the seven deadly sins, I thought it might be cool to entitle this: on anger, but I only occasionally erupt into wrath. Mostly, I get irritated and kvetch.

Some quotes from John Climacus (c. 579-649):

Meekness is a permanent condition of that soul which remains unaffected by whether or not it is spoken well of, whether or not it is honored or praised. The first step toward freedom from anger is to keep the lips silent when the heart is stirred; the next, to keep thoughts silent when the soul is upset; the last, to be totally calm when unclean winds are blowing.

Some people (I hold a slightly different view), believe that thoughts (or beliefs) precede emotions, which then precede actions. In my case, the thought and the feeling exist virtually simultaneously.  Whether this is true or no, John of the Ladder says that the wrong actions can be prevented by intentional actions: keeping silence, controlling thoughts & finally inner peace. Like many early Christians, he believes character traits like anger, sloth, lust, &c. are either literal demons or at least actuated by them. Some modern-day Christians believe the same. We now know, progress having been made, that thoughts are the result of biochemical processes in the brain. I'm not sure what the difference is; to the average person thought-forms and chemical states are a distinction not readily obtained. We still talk of seizures, heart attacks, being under the influence (of which star?), etc.

In my case, preventing a spark is easier than dealing with the necessity of a lengthy apology/reparation program. Stinking thinking goeth before a fall, especially when one is dealing with long-term relationships.

Irascibility is an untimely flaring up of the heart [...] Anger is an easily changed movement of one's disposition, a disfigurement of the soul. Just as darkness retreats before light, so all anger and bitterness disappears before the fragrance of humility.

Humility is a useful trait to have. There are several aspects to humility, but I probably won't express them well, so I crave your pardon in advance.

There is outward humility (not the same as humiliation). We are all familiar with people of humble origins, in humble circumstance, where life has dealt with them harshly and they have few resources. We see people in this circumstance in most inner cities. They are not necessarily humble people, but are poor (in one way or another) and this makes them, well, humble. They may be proud as peacocks on the inside, and prickly too, but they are of modest circumstances and have little political power. You never hear a politician talking about his homeless constituency, for
instance.

Inner humility also has several aspects. Humility toward others, inwardly, is the trait most people think of in this connection. These sort of humble people don't think too highly of themselves. They often give up privileged positions. This is the kind of humble people think they are supposed to aspire to.

Finally is humility toward yourself and those in your intimate circles. I'm going to confess that I am often more polite, more courteous, toward people I know less well than I am to people in my own household. I treat (and am treated, I suspect) my intimates better when in public, also. This is a good reason for getting out or perhaps, instead, I should pretend that I am in public all the time. Hurm.

Irritability/anger are inversely proportional to humility. I have striven to have more humility and perhaps it is bearing fruit. I've run out of time and attention. I'll speak more of this anon.

On compassion, acceptance, & the first step.

The sermon today was only partly about Mother's day. Nor was it only about Julian of Norwich (whose day it had been this week) & Christ our mother (a theme in her work). No, it was about how we are worthy because we are accepted by God & not accepted because we are worthy. God doesn't condemn us and therefore we should not condemn ourselves or others. All will be well.

A blog I read recently was about the Zen-like property of compassion. We reduce the world's suffering both by relieving our own & by reducing that of others by example. Others see us reduce our suffering and learn that there is a better way; they are encouraged. We share with them that we suffer also (I did this today) and that there is hope. It is heartening to suffer with someone & then work your (both of you) ways through it.

I am reading St John Climachus' the Ladder of Divine Descent, to which the step refers. I cannot begin to do the book justice. A few quotes will have to suffice...

"Violence & unbending pain are the lot of those who aim to ascend to heaven with the body, and this especially at the early stages of the enterprise, when our pleasure-loving disposition and our unfeeling hearts must travel through overwhelming grief toward the love of God and holiness. It is hard, truly hard."

Elsewhere he compares the process like going through surgery (back then--no anesthetic).

"When the soul betrays itself, when that initial happy warmth grows cold, the reasons for such a loss ought to be carefully sought and, once found, ought to be combated with all possible zeal, for the initial fervor has to turn back through the same gate through which it had slipped away."

There are three types of monks: spiritual athletes, those who share a life of styles with one or two others, and those who live in community. It's not for everyone. One should find circumstances & method that suit them.

Just a few things I encounters on this day. One last thing: to love your neighbor as yourself in any meaning sense, you must love yourself.

Procrastination is its own reward

Yesterday, I learned something of why I procrastinate--the object is hard in some way. A few examples...

 

I have numerous honey-doos (clean/clear the driveway, remove a closet, replace some outlets, refinish the kitchen walls, etc.) requiring my attention. I have been most industrious in working on them, too. A combination of Jonah & Niggle (as in Leaf by Niggle by Tolkien). I have installed a project manager (plan by Ubuntu, I think).

 

This program allows you to analyze the fsck out of the project, but I found myself being endlessly and almost recursively reductionistic. I had the task, the subtask, the resource, the assignee. I never actually worked on the project, though. Program too complex. Too simple was Astrid, for the Android.  A to do program, it is great for small recurring reminders like clean the bathroom, vacuum, & the like, but no subtasks. Trello is better.

This program allows collaboratively assigning tasks to "boards" & you can put checklists on it & assign tasks. It has couple potential for mutual projects like working on finances, a family trust, or any project requiring cooperation.

 

I got closest to, instead of just thinking about the project, to actually working on it. I have two in mind now, clearing the outside (more details in a minute) & taking down the closet in the corner of our office. But it took the intervention of my wife to make it happen.

 

I am not what you would call a physical worker.  I love talking pictures & sharing them online.  I love working on the church website. I don't like using a shovel. To make a long story longer, I need to supply some details...

We have some holes in our backyard & a pile of dirt in our driveway. The only point of access: a door too narrow for a wheelbarrow, which requires me to carry buckets, two at a time. You know how much that weighs? Neither do I. It seemed to be as heavy as the earth. Bad joke...

 

I worked for an hour. A long, agonizing hour. Putting the dirt into the buckets was easy. Dumping them out was easy. Carrying them through the garage (sideways, part of the way) & into the backyard was not.

 

I am woefully out of shape. Suspect I have a lot more manual labor in store. Good thing lawnmowers have wheels.

More on acedia

What I experience as acedia is a multifaceted phenomenon.

Today, I experienced this inner resistance as a burning feeling, an inflammation, in my knees & hip joints. Tilting my head back in apparent exasperation is a sign to me that I need a red pill (decongestant). Perhaps I am experiencing a purely physical phenomenon and not psychic resistance to cleaning the kitchen.

Now that I write this on my smartphone, lying (or laying?) on my bed, I no longer experience those sensations.  True, I have taken passion meds and am no longer on my feet. I am also no longer in the kitchen. In a few minutes, I will either do some light reading (a book on "the quieter virtues") or revise the (Anglican) rosary I completed last night.

No matter how much I do in the kitchen (my Sisyphean labor), I am not satisfied. I feel like I "pull a fast one", that I am not doing it according to spec--that I am cheating by only cleaning the cabinets & having someone else unload the dishwasher.  I tell myself that I'll steam mop the floor tomorrow, that I'll load the dishwasher tomorrow morning.

After all, like the Evagriab monk who realizes, conveniently, that he doesn't have to remain in his cell, doing his monkly duty, to serve God--that He is not restricted to place or time, I don't have to do everything tonight, do I? After all, I burn with inflammation. 

Some days, the bear gets you.

Guns, civility, and community

Guns.

The Rt. Rev. Edward J. Konieczny, Bishop of Oklahoma (Episcopal), who is a former police officer, wrote in the Thin Line between God & Guns:

"We need a reasoned conversation about existing privacy laws that protect the mentally ill but too often fail to protect our law enforcement officers and our citizens. We need conversations about movies and video games that desensitize our children to the effects of violence. We need conversations about loopholes in the laws that allow the sale of weapons at gun shows and by private dealers without proper background checks."

The Bishop gets it. But we don't just need gun control, we need a comprehensive dialogue about violence. But it isn't just the mentally ill who use guns inappropriately. Guns are used to criminals, by people in alienated relationships, in drive by shootings, and in other incidents. 

Contrary to what an otherwise sane mental health practitioner told me, violence is not a symptom of mental illness. Adam Lanza to the contrary, the mentally ill are more likely to be victims. They just don't make the news. 

Neither can they be easily detected nor confined "non-punitivly" to facilities & told "you will take your meds". While it may be true that we could free up resources by reforming our drug laws (decriminalize marijuana), the prison industry has a powerful lobby. Also, there is no royal road to mental health. Also, there we have the presumption of innocence in this country. Take away my rights--yes, I have a mental illness--and they can take away yours.

One thing the Bishop talked about in a recent panel at Trinity Episcopal Church this past Sunday was how we need less distrust of each other. We need better community. We need a dialogue on guns and violence. We also need civility.  Heinlein said that rudeness is a sign of a collapsing civilization--ours. He's right. 

I am part of one of the most civil Internet communities--the Gunroom (devoted to, among other topics, the works of Patrick O'Brian). While we shy away from religion and politics, it is necessary to discuss them--albeit not there. 

We need to discuss the causes of violence: poverty, disenfranchisement, incivility, cats (just checking to see if you were still there), and whether we are good stewards of what we are borrowing from those who come after us. The rich need to help the poor by more than throwing money at them. See the earlier episode about giving.

What is civility? Politeness and the small courtesies are just a start, though a good one. What is the answer? I don't know. Let's talk about it.

Give til it feels

Why do we give?

Incident #1

On the road, which is where we seem to encounter the Trickster most (see Hermes). I am approached by a attractive, middle-class-looking man who stumbles over his "pitch". He claims (I don't hear the details) that he has had his possessions stolen from the back of his pickup. The fact that it took him a few minutes to get to the point (asking for money) lends verisimilitude to his approach. Much to my wife's annoyance, I gave him a small percentage of what he was asking for ($5). I rarely give money, not having all that much, but that doesn't soothe my wife, when she finds it necessary to balance to the penny.


Incident #2

I need to go downtown to Home Depot to get banister hardware for the rental house across town. At the last minute, I decide to take the turnpike. I stop at the Kum & Go (a real place) to get a soda (another pet peeve of my wife).

This Indian man asks if I can give him a ride to Tulsa. Turns out he's Oglala Sioux with long pig-tails and a gap-toothed grin. I tell him 'm going downtown; he offers to pay for the ride, but I tell him he doesn't have to. I don't give rides, mostly. I question my judgement as he gets in my truck.

On the way to our destination, he tells me that he's been visiting his son in Stroud, who is incarcerated in a juvenile detention center. He's 14 and been sneaking out of his mom's house to go get in trouble. Many Native kids in his age-group are addicted to meth, the scourge of our state. My passenger is trying to get custody--his mother doesn't want to deal with him any longer and complicating the issue is that she is a different tribe.

I drop my passenger off at his apartment complex (Christ says that if you are pressed for a mile, go two). I tell him I'll pray for his them. The really interesting bit is that this man was "praying to Holy Spirit" for a ride because he was tired, having walked from Stroud. Then I show up. Enough to make you believe in God. 

Analysis:  

The first incident involved money and had a negative feeling--I felt awkward/embarrassed.  I suspect that is one of the feelings that made the Levites etc. (in the Good Samaritan parable) pass the possibly dead man.

The second made me and my wife feel good. 

The only difference, aside from the skill of the recipient (after all, there may have been no 14 year old), was that the second was slightly more inconvenient. Time is money, my wife's attitude toward money notwithstanding. Is $5 equivalent to how long it takes in gas and time to got from the interstate to an apartment complex?

No, I think the feeling is emotion (aside from whether the guy needed $5). The first guy probably had a bad delivery because he was ashamed. The next guy who asks for money will get a blessing instead of cash, of which I have too little. St Peter said something similar somewhere.

In which our hero develops his theme

Acedia (or sloth) is numbered among the seven (or eight) Deadly Sins. There really are eight, but one (pride) is considered the root of them all. Those interested the history of their development should read Evagrius of Pontus, Cassian, Gregory the Great, & Thomas Aquinas. I also recommend Glittering Vices by Rebecca Konydyk DeYoung, associate philosopher of philosophy at Calvin College.

Far from being a minor vice--after all, if it was the original sin, we'd still be in Paradise--acedia is the resistance to God's love. It is this inner quality that exhausts its victim and makes them appear lazy. In actuality, like the clinically depressed, she spends so much time and energy in this process (deliberately so, because they'd rather fight than switch) that there is none for action. The true vice is this resistance. Habitués of Sloth can appear to be very busy, but this is a "false busyness". He is frantically running away from God.

To quote Evagrius, the demon of acedia affects the monk about 10 AM and besieges his soul until 2 PM. The demon makes the sun appear to crawl across the sky. Those four hours take forever to pass. The monk is restless, looking outside to see if it is 3 PM yet--quitting time. He develops a dislike for his cell and for his companions. Any call center employee can relate.

"He leads him on to a desire for other places where he can easily find the wherewithal to meet his needs [and pursue a trade elsewhere. After all, pleasing the Lord is not a question of locality.]"--Praktikos

Quoting DeYoung, the Greek word (a-kedeia) means "lack of care". (I'm not sure whether care here means attention or apathy. If I cared enough to pay attention, I'd google.) A grave spiritual malady, it manifests as dejection or a sense of oppressiveness. The vice is serious, powerful and threatens one's commitment to religious identity and vocation. One's entire commitment to life in God is at stake. It is that deadly.

In Steven Pressfield's the War of Art, Resistance--with a capital R--threatens any time someone attempts anything from a spiritual discipline to great art. Whether you actually produce anything saleable or not, any time you put brush to canvas, you've beaten Resistance.

How this vice affects me: domesticity. If you don't believe keeping a house is a spiritual discipline (actually, everything is), you haven't tried it. The only time cleaning is joyous is either 1) you have a true vocation for it or 2) you are trying to write a novel and are blocked. I'm not sure which way Resistance wins in that instance, but there it is. Certain household tasks (in fact, anything practical) overwhelm me. Learned helplessness or letting my illness (mood/thought disorder) run over me. 

During these events and the marital discord that results (we are perennially broke, in part because we both subsist from rental property income and Social Security), I feel that God has abandoned me to my fate. In those moments, prayer is futile. Christ is absent. Now, I know about the Dark Night of the Soul and all, but I am not so egotistical as to believe that is what is happening. Someone once complained that God doesn't treat his friends very well.

Maybe this blog will help you, Dear Reader. If it does that, then this is not mere self-reflection, mere enthusiasm.