Cacophony

Much rattles through my head. Organize! It'll be a couple of days and only then will I successfully orchestrate this entry. I begin with a quote I saved, and forgot, and found again. It is one of Thomas Merton, writer, priest, monk, contemplative, describing his peace. "Because today, it is enough to be, in an ordinary human mode, with one's hunger and sleep, one's cold and warmth, rising and going to bed. Putting on blankets and taking them off, making coffee and then drinking it. Defrosting the refrigerator, reading, meditating, working, praying. I live as my ancestors have lived on this earth, until eventually I die. Amen. There is no need to make an assertion of my life, especially about it as mine, though doubtless it is not somebody else's. I must learn gradually to forget program and artifice."


Funny how within a day perspective changes. It is the day after I began this entry. Too often for me, though I think I am getting better, sometimes, it tends to go from good to less than good. On the weekend, where there was no pressure on my mind or soul I could enjoy the warming sunfilled days, reclining in my back yard, cat purring on my chest and praying with near intention on Palm Sunday at two Masses at which I assisted, one in which I distributed the Eucharist, a rare and awesome service to perform. But as soon as any regular life, work, demands of an unhappy consumer, requirements of the day interposed themselves, I felt the wall come up and the need to defend overtook. It was not sufficient to be, to do, move on to the next thing without fear and resistance. Merton's simple recipe seemed impossible, available only to someone who only visits the daily grind occasionally. In this world, to survive, it seems, one must make an assertion and develop both program and artifice. He was in his monastery and hermitage, protected against the jostlings of the day. Wasn't he?


Could he find peace faster than I because of where he lived and prayed, where prayer was the grist of is every day? Then I remember that every action and thought is to be a prayer and praying may not, does not, depend on where one lives or works. On the other hand, a lovely field and the vocalizations of bluejays or mockingbirds would seem to make prayer more readily accessible. In my office, bristling at the arch tone of a caller who feels, perhaps with justification in some objective sense, that I should account to her, the only thing readily coming to mind are endless cuss words I have to restrain myself from uttering. And I feel the moments of clarity I thought finally vouchsafed to me dissipating into a diaphanous haze as I watch a young colleague grapple traumatically with the palpable evil of the world reposing in a prosecution to which I have assigned her.


The ordinary human mode is sometimes too much to take; it offers no peace. But then, suddenly, I remember the week that it is, when the Extraordinary One took on the ordinary human mode right down to a violent death in a miraculous joining to His beings--we with the cacaphony in our heads that all too often pours out and destroys anything within range of us.


I live my life as my ancestors did, plodding from day to day, only if I just stop I have that which heals the cacaphony, a saving like no other, by One like no other. If only I would stop and realize and be thankful, before there are no more tomorrows.

Refeathering the Nest

After my father died, I must have run a million plans for my future through my head. I ran across some notes the other day in which I wrote that a three bedroom home was one of my "must haves" in a new direction. Then, I thought, I'd move into my dad's condo. Then I thought, "no, it's too small". Then I was back to the larger house which would have to be in the boonies in that I could not afford what is available in my current neighborhood, notwithstanding the economic downturn nationwide.

Then I was back to the little apartment, particularly as it is never easy for me to let go of something that has sentimental value. It was the last place my father lived, and relatively comfortably for the last six years of his 90 years.

Then I tried to sell it, and ran into the reality of a condo association with no reserves such that lenders were concerned about funding potential buyers. And, oh, there was the roof which the association said is mighty fine, while the buyer's inspectors said, "oh, no". Of course, if I had been less disclosing, I might have avoided that part of their inspection, but then, unlike the people who sold to my dad and I, I revealed all. Yes, it's the law, but you'd be surprised at how most folks fail to abid by it. Shocking, I know. . .

After a year plus on and off trying to sell, I gave up. And then hit a period of mind freeze. And then, in December 2009, a friend, able to cover my mortgage and HOA, mostly, though not the ever increasing taxes, needed a place and I needed someone that I knew looking after the place and it all seemed just synchronicitous. I rented it out in March. By then I was thinking on things again, and decided, given the fact that I am at upper middle age, unmarried and childless, expanding my material life, bigger house (that I would be no better at housekeeping) and more stuff, made no sense. This is the time of life for purgation, for reflection, not for more conspicuous consumption.

At least my time of life. I don't speak for others.,

And I like where I live, even if I am a renter. I like the apartment, which is spacious for a one bedroom, and cheerful. I can walk to shopping. I have access to everything I need. It is a lively neighborhood, but quiet in my little space. There is even a new Italian place down the block. And a good one.

Quite simply, if I left here, it would be in response to some "ought" of others, with good intention, but not of mine.

A decision. No easy thing to come by for me. I decided to paint, with the help of my father's brother, still quite the handy man despite his advancing age of 85. I decided to put most of my stuff in the garage to be sifted later for possible garage sale. It was hard. Everything I have, kitschy and otherwise, has memory, has a story. Not an easy thing to let go. But, it was essential. It is essential. I decided to refinish and tune my childhood piano, itself nearly half a century old. And maybe go back to playing. A new rug. And only a few pieces of furniture, and not particle board, which has been my past wont. That would be my concession to adult decor and materialism. So, I have a couple of Chinese antigue like cabinets, one I am using as a console. And i am about to have a Jeffersonian highboy in my bedroom, that despite the difference in culture, I think will work with the Chinese cabinet in here. And today I got a flip flop Futon, a really cool couch that doesn't look like the Castro Convertible of old, and will be comfortable and functional. Oh, and the cellular shades on their way soon. The place is more open, and fresh. It is going to be my hub for the last part of my life, that I hope is many years to come, trying new experiences, something I have been loath to do far too long. A place to write. A place to study. A place to have wonderful conversations with a few good friends at a time. A place to cuddle with my cats. A place to think about life, and God, and salvation. A place to reshape and grow.

I could just about chirp!