On Feeling Fictitious

 

Mid-Lent, when things are getting real. The more the real, the more fictitious I feel. The pandemic has provided such an alternate reality that I seem to be myself as read like a character in a book. Or perhaps an image of myself as viewed through a home-made documentary. This isn’t the new normal, because there’s actually no old normal. That’s a fictitious idea. What there is, is eternal change.

It was St. Paul who identified “this mutable” which must become “immutable” in a spiritual body. There seem to be problems with the physical body and the problem with pandemic bodies is you’re going nowhere. Plenty of talk, through zoom, phone and video; not so much presence. It’s not uncomfortable: I’m a happy fictitious individual. Just strange.

Mostly we compare ourselves, in a negative sense, to those better off, while once we compare ourselves to those more struggling we risk self-satisfaction. There’s something to be said for the mysteriousness of living. I’m hardly invisible: there are dispassionate eyes watching wherever we go. Cameras, satellites, strangers in front of computers regarding everyone. Fictitious eyes. The eye of love is close and you can see its glow. May we make it so.

On The Days

 

I’m learning a piece called I Giorni which means “The Days”. Days may be passed, spent, or seized. I used to say when walking my dog Shadow, ‘The days of Shadow are good days.’ Those were days that came to an end. The days of the pandemic are strange days. These must also reach an ending.

While some parts of I Giorni are hard for me to play, parts of some days are hard to stay. Some are grim indeed.  But each of the days has its purpose.  Rainy days for growing. Shiny days for walking. Holidays for resting. Each day has its times. Who blames the high sun of noonday for not being the pale light of dawn, with intriguing expectations? The golden hour so perfect for photography is the dog watch of evening. Short, but excellent.

While merely a child, you’re a baby; toddler; primary; teenaged: growing into adult knowledge. For life. While merely aged, you’re old; an admirable antique; then an amiable ancient; eventually a surprising sage: growing on to wise reflections, should we live so long. Seeing through the ways. Tasting how the times play to themselves. Listening to the ages and the days. For good.

On Raging

The pandemic is raging. Somewhere beneath the sea, the volcano is raging; sea rages; winds rage; the waters washing out about the islands and sending the frail crust into the infinite transformational properties of the earth. The nations raging – furiously – and then we ask why? Why do they do it? I would really like to know.

The rich rage at failing to increase their already plutocratic wealth. Religious rage with zeal for their godly houses.  Politicians, despite the cults they profess, the corruptions they practice, the ideologies they idolise, rage against the intractabilities of governing.

Some are raging with joy. Transposed into another dimension by drugs, dance, or drumming. Dionysus on the dance floor. Raging with beauty, like avian flocks lighting up from the lakes at sunrise. Raging with grief, flooding tears of hopelessness and loss. The earth rages, shaking.

Wrath, a raging deadly sin, so common. We rage because so much fails us, so little contains us, we feel responsible for it all.

We can’t control the earth, the wind or sea. In the face of all this raging, we might try controlling ourselves: our temper, our envy and greed. The raging within. With God’s help. 

On Speaking Low

 

Entering a New Year, with Janus looking forward and back, to landscapes familiar and changed. Confronting stresses internal and external: climate change, contagion, conflict, confusion. Worn mentality, emotions of grief and loss. Escape attempts: entire populations in denial. Swinging out.

Talking to yourself is said to be a sign of insanity. Yet we talk to ourselves all the time, if only silently. Much of this conversation is critical; much of our memory is regret. This negative voice is actually subtraction. Designed to keep us safe. Subtracting dangers. Recalling risks, provoking examples where things went wrong. The superstition of avoiding praise that might attract misfortune. Yet misfortune is.

Other tones are available, attainable. Think of the unfettered approval given a child who is learning to walk. Falling comes with the world. The voice is encouraging, sure we can do it. We can’t save ourselves (Christ has already done that) but we won’t do nothing. We can sympathise with our plight. Take responsibility for our timing. Fight our corner. Give ourselves every chance. Speak low and easy into our succession of moments, as a warm travelling companion. That’s my New Year’s Resolution: speak low, speak love, start at home.

On Christmas Present

 

Advent: a season of repentance. For beginners, we could look at greed. Greed of Empire. Personal greed. Even greed of space.

It’s famously more blessed to give than to receive, and charity’s a word of bad repute. Why? What’s the relationship between justice and moderation? How to avoid ostentation? Generosity depends on having. What’s the cost to the receiver? What’s taken away? What obligation purveyed? What conditional love displayed? Is this gift really necessary?

Many motivations and intentions. You can give time, strength and attention. Everybody wants your attention, can’t get enough. Much of it in grievous situations. Grief on the move. And harmony, the resolution of discord, that must be led back over and over, in progressions.

The obligation is not to the receiver, but the giver. It will test your values. There’s no top to the pile of causes stacking up on my desk, appealing for money and support. What’s the relationship between courage and wisdom?  How best to relieve suffering? Or nourish, or inspire? Which most appropriate decisions can you make, knowing the others have a right to your help? (As you to theirs.) Christmas present is love for me and thee and they.

On the Temple

 

I’ve seen a warehouse when the consignment has shipped: swept bare, not a nail or speck of dust remains. If the body is a temple, as the Apostle says, so also the body’s mind.  You don’t allow heaps of rubbish lying around a temple, so less the body and even less the mind.

Piles of procrastination. Hoards of hurts. Caches of comparisons. Operas of offence. Bales of brawls and dramatic cavorting. Menageries of judgement. Cellars of self-congratulation.

Illness and mourning shock the body whether you’re consciously aware or not: energy leaks away like water. Change the stowage. Find chapels of healing; encompassed griefs; cloistered regrets swathed in prayers of humility.

What to bring to this space once you’ve removed the lumber? Trousseaux of thankfulness, gardens of good will, coffers of kindness. Pure intentions. Troves of tender regard. Gatherings of flowers, scripture, literature, art. Music, language of angels. Vast stores of memories. Many things are quicker to dismantle than build up. That accounts for gallons of slowness and tonnes of patience. Treasuries of mercy and lovingkindness.

‘We cannot know what God is, but rather what God is not’. Remotion, not names. No nail nor speck of dust remains.

On Mistakes

 

You only get one chance with most things, so you might as well enter into the field of your mistakes. Mistakes are your loyal friend; they will never leave you.

Some mistakes are long-lasting. It actually takes a long time to commit them. A thesis written on the wrong topic; a dream job becomes a nightmare; a cult fails to deliver your salvation. Some mistakes can’t be avoided: you can’t take everything. (A mistake is not a take). You may miss a take due to standing where you are, or to what has standing here and there. And the unmistaken life doesn’t last. Always new realms of mistakes to be explored. Mistake upon mistake compounds understanding.

Then you might remember the mistakes of others. Bearing grudges for half a lifetime over a hasty word, yourself a different person then. Twin mistakes, born at the same time. Forgiving as an act of the will; forgetting harder still. (A mistake is not a crime).

Then the mistake of taking yourself seriously; you’re often more comedy than drama. When others mistake you, “ya gotta love ‘em”. You think you’re better than them? Not so. When you make mistakes, you gotta love you, too.