Love Made Visible

About ten or more years ago, a friend and fellow parishioner at my Church made me aware of a tiny (compared to other charities) group of nuns whose charism, besides prayer, was to take care of the sick and dying in their homes, without receiving any payment from the patient or family. The work is done for anyone, regardless of religious affliliation.




I became a member of the Sister Servants of Mary Guild maybe five or six years ago.  One of the sisters, Pilar, was there for me when my dad was hospitalized and died.  She visited him, although he was not conscious to see. She called me literally at the moment of his passing, offering me her solace and God's mercy.

One of their sixconvents in the United States (they were founded by a Spanish nun, St. Maria Soledad Torres Acosta and have seven locations/addresses in Mexico) is in the Bronx. You see, says Djinn FROM THE BRONX, there truly are no accidents with God!

What triggers the praise of this group for which I have an abiding affection, just now? Yesterday, the officers of the Guild (I have far to go to be among that terrific group) held the annual luncheon to raise funds for the Sisters at the Wilshire Country Club so that they can continue to do their work for those in need for free. It was a joy to see an infusion of new members, and some who were a bit younger and potentially more energetic than the still extant founding members who must soon pass the torch.

There were even some men present at the luncheon tables, a plus for an organization that has been sustained primarily by women since circa 1960. (The Guild, not the Sister Servants themselves). After the cocktail hour on the patio of the club looking out over the golf course on a breezy but sunny Saturday, not only was there good food and a silent auction, and a raffle, but there were the truly angelic voices of the young choir of Christ the King School. For me there was something wistfully incongruent hearing the children sing mostly from the Sound of Music, at the age I very nearly was when I saw the original movie in 1965.

The front row had the youngest, boys and girls, one smiling, another watching the room, another so serious and standing with the insides of his sneakers wedged against each other as he sang. They seemed surprised by the joy and approval their music wrought. Their innocence somehow emphasized the goodness of the nuns for whom the benefit was being held, one at each of 18 tables with the diners.  And noting the variations of age in that room, from those little ones to people like me at upper middle age and many at the sunset of their lives, emphasized how quickly the fresh and the young become those who need the services of gentle and compassionate nursing nuns who ask for nothing but the next task.

We had one of several of the Sr. Maria's in the room at our table. She had just returned to the convent in Los Angeles after years away, a young, poised woman, who spoke not only of her prayers, but of her all night vigils and caring at some home where someone sick needed her. The thing about these sisters, one and all I have met, is their palpable happiness. They are around the sick, the dying, and the pain of families who lose their loved ones, and yet, their giving is complete and not only without complaint, but with a simple fervor that is mesmerizing. It is transfiguring, the revelation of someting so spiritually beautiful as to seem almost impossible on this earth. We Catholics, we Christians all, talk the talk about sharing in Christ's sufferings, but when suffering is near to us, or we are suffering ourselves, we often default to a "Why me?" or "I can't handle it".  When we cry, '"Father, let this cup pass" us by, we do not readily follow, with the words, "Not my Will, but Thine be done:". But these women, they are not afraid, truly understanding that suffering is not only inevitable, but a joining to One whom they love. And thus do they make His love visible to those for whom they care and an example to those of us who would help them serve others.

Someone recently asked me if I had ever considered being a nun. Truth is, I wouldn't have the guts these women have. At least, though, I can tell those of you who read this blog about them. I am pretty sure I mentioned them before in these pages, although certainly not recently.

They are a bit under the radar, in part, because they have to be.  They need donations to keep doing the work for free for families, but there simply are not enough of them to go around;  a lot of people get sick but even with donations they cannot be everywhere. What they need is an infusion of vocations, to nursing and the religious life. Well, for now, the donations that they get will have to be a start. 

I want you to know about them.  Their convent in Los Angeles is 2131 West 27th Street, Los Angeles, Califronia  90018.

Become a member of the Guild.  And pray for them. Pray for vocations.

In our small ways, we can be part of making love visible.

The Danger of Overdoing Being Free and then Not-Being Free

I know. There is no such thing as absolute freedom. I know it, but someone tell some of our political movers and shakers, where absolute freedom is for them, alone and not for anyone they disagree with. No, no. Djin. Stop it! No commentary. This is an apolitical piece in a political world.


You remember the entry about "If I Didn't Have to Work I'd. . .." ?  I have a refinement of the challenge I am facing. I can do whatever I WANT. But then I try to do TOO much and get all bolyxed up. Did I spell that right? Probably not. Spell check, please!


The other day I decided to look into an old age nursing home that I thought might be nice if I live long enough and I am not just carted out of here.  It's an old one, up in the hills, run by the Carmelites. So, here was my thinking, although I was grateful that the operations lady kept pointing out that it really WAS too early for me to be shown around, wh ich she did anyway. She kept saying that I should know that if I had Alzheimers, this would not be the place for me. No kidding. It is up in a mountain and there are no gates. I wouldn't consider it, but then if I have Alzheimer's I won't know what's what, anyway.  My thinking, yes. Let me tell you.  I started out life on the campus of a Catholic girls school; I might as well end it on the campus of a Catholic home for the elderly. There seems to be a symmetry and if I do successfully enhance my spiritual life between now and the time I need care, how perfect to be surrounded by the contemplation of the Carmelites for whom I have a particular affection.


The place is lovely. Only 57 beds, and it did not have that smell of impending death although heaven knows the residents were aged parent types. In one room a nun read to a circle of ladies. One was asleep in her wheel chair. That is likely what I will be doing if I live that long.


I was directed to another place I had heard of for independent living, which might be my first stop, again, if I make it that far, let's see, what ten or fifteen years? In the meantime, I asked if hillly nursing home used volunteers. I have been concerned that I am not DOING enough with my free time, which I fear being too free of minutes, and hours. They did and off I went with my application, requiring a TB test and three references. I filled it out. I put it in an envelope. I put on the envelope a stamp. Someplace between putting the envelope in my car and now, I noticed that I felt a bit anxious that I was, in fact, putting too much back on my plate.


The trigger was my second level voice over class, Tuesday nights. This one is as much about the artistry as it is about the business. The question/mantra for the four weeks is"How Badly Do You Want It?" In fact, we had an assignment to write our goals and tasks daily, weekly, monthly, yearly, five years, ten years. Me? I wrote this rambly piece akin to how I feel--not sure.  Do I or do I not want to commit to the work of this creative endeavor, including the business part, the getting in front of someone to do the artistry? 


I think so. So today, I began. And it took time. And it will continue to take time.

The free time can be daunting.

But this is not all I wish to do or be. I wish to do charity work, like volunteering at that old age home. I am at an age where I am seriously considering the shuffling off of the mortal coil and my immortal soul. However, I already had or have two on going projects, one related to raising money for bringing clean water to East Africa through Catholic Relief Services under the aegis of a parish umbrella called "Our Lady of the Well of Nazareth" and helping to raise money for a smaller group of amazing nursing nuns called the Sister Servants of Mary and maybe to do some less grand tasks for them as needed. Both of these charitable works were part of my week. One involved at least four to five or more hours of my time. The other will involve a nearly full day. I haven't done that much with either, and if I am going to give full attention to these three things, the voice work, for an added "living" if it goes well, and the two charities, I cannot simply be trying to fill my calendar to avoid any down time in which my anxiety about doing something "meaningful" with the rest of my life when I have that quiet time. I haven't even mentioned the writing and the painting that I have been slipping in eratically.

Part of it is learning how better to structure my day since as I have already noted, the imposed structure is not presently extant. Part of it is accepting that I may just sit outside for an hour or two watching the birds and breathing deep the Los Angeles air, or saying the rosary or reading the Magnifcat, or even some lighter stuff.

This is an unfamiliar me on unfamiliar turf. It'll take some getting used to. I don't have to fill every minute.

Lightning Under the Big Dipper and Other Observations of a Nearly White Knuckle Flyer

I returned, last night, from a brief sojourn in the Ozark Mountains.

Do not laugh (if you are). It is quite a lovely place, as it turns out. I have found, actually, that many places between New York and Los Angeles, are lovely. A little too quiet for me, perhaps, in the long term, but lovely.

I was visiting a friend who some decade ago moved to Jefferson City, Missouri. It had been some time since I travelled there, probably 7 to 8 years. She suggested that we have a long girls' weekend at the Sky Ridge Retreat near Eureka Springs, Arkansas. Arkansas! you say? I had no image of that place, except that it was a Southern State during the late Civil War. And truly mid-west at tthat. Cowboy type midwest even perhaps more than California in some ways. The main point was seeing my friend, so where we caught up was not of great concern to me, and, I figured, any place I haven't been is an adventure to be savored. So off I went.

It takes a lot for me to travel. In part, I think I inherited the family gene that makes leaving the confines of the five miles surrounding my apartment a not to be readily engaged in task. As much as I might like to "see the world" more than I have, I prefer the frame of my space. I do not say this with any kind of pride. It is a fact. Add to this that the experience of travel is more of a hassle than ever it was, and it was before. I know, some of you LOVE airports, LOVE the packing, the going, the process. I just don't. I have tried to convince myself that I do, but I don't. But I suppose if it were not for the fact that I HATE to fly, these inconveniences would be tolerable. Alas, I have never liked to fly, although I have done a fair amount of it. "What are you afraid of?" people ask. Safer than a car. You can die even on the ground. Yep. Yep. I know. It's true. But when I am on the way up and up there, the thoughts that run through my head for pretty much the entire trip (the longest I have taken was 10 hours to Italy) are Freddy Krueger-esque. It isn't the dying that scares me. It is the nose downward, 30 seconds to crash and burn, what will my last thoughts and words be part. And while I may have little control over things when I am "on the ground", I have even less in a tin can squished next to a business man with no space for me to adequately panic.

I like my friend a lot. So there I was on the 3 and a half hour flight to St. Louis. And that flight was smooth as glass. I even got pictures along the way. I nearly convinced myself that yes, I can do this more.

Part of coming  back was the same. And then. . ..

At about 7 or 8 p.m. LA time, a storm was approaching the city. Fortunately, I did not know about it before I got on my plane in sunny St. Louis. I might have re-considered the trip, or asked for a hitch on Air Force One (the best of the best), which happened to be in town (and delayed our flight slightly). So, it was just like clockwork. Nice take off, clear skies, watching the sun go down ahead of us, over and over as we moved West in the evening.  Even with Attila the Flight Attendant frowning at us and rather ungraciously asking if we wanted anything to drink (she was a large, severe woman with glasses and a bun; I told the young Egyptian businessman next to me that she was my first school marm attendant), it was going pleasantly enough.
About forty minutes or more outside of LA, as I was looking out the window marvelling at the Big Dipper,

I noticed the gathered clouds below

which were so many that even in the dark they were visible. Oh, and then there was the lightening off to the right and pretty close by my reckoning. But we passed the lightening by without incident and without the flashing of the seat belt light. So, there could be a pause in my fearful ruminations. And then. . . .

The plane began to dip up and down, just a tad. And then it shook, just a tad.  And the seat belt sign was on. And then the Captain in his best soothing voice said that he had asked the Flight Attendants to take their seats "for their safety".  Ooopsie Daisy! The fearful ruminations begin! There was no second round of the unwieldy cart going down the aisle. I would have welcomed my school marm attendant. No. It was just too bumpy. I had images of Pope John Paul II kissing the ground as I hoped I would, if only those lights in the distance were Los Angeles. Worried that my last words would be "Oh, shit!", as I am told is a frequent final address to the world, I decided to pray the "Hail Mary" over and over, in between "Oh, man" and "Oh boys" as the plane bumped. This is not a good time to look at the wing, but of course I do and it looks like a bird actually flapping.
 And yet, the man behind me was snoring. I wished I had several valiums. No more trips for me if I live! 

Clearly, my friends, I made it to write again. I refrained from kissing the ground, although the urge was enormous.

Never have I been so happy to be in the bosom of my rooms. Will I venture forth again? Probably. But I will have to rev up the strength for a while.

The storm I went through last night, arrived this morning and has been with us all day. I like it better from this perspective.

Enjoy the Show

"Moneyball" should be much Oscar nominated. Actors, director, writing, adaptation, film editing, the works!

I like the occasional baseball game, but I would not call myself a fan. After seeing this movie, I have a new found respect for the game and now have some understanding of the essence of the debate between statistics  team building and let's call it the intangibles, heart, fate, intensity, collegiality.

But what I found most about the movie is that it translated to all walks of life and causes us to pause about the decisions we have made, the ones we ought to have made, and the ones we will make in the future, even if the future before us is relatively short.

The movie is based on the true story of Billy Beane, 44 years old circa the beginning of the 21st century, and working as the GM of the Oakland Athletics. As told to us in spare flashbacks, as a young high school graduate, he had the choice of a lucrative baseball contract based upon the opinion of the scouts that he was an all around player (could do most or all of the positions) who would be big in the world of baseball, or going to Stanford University. He could not do both. He chose baseball, and his career was let's say, lackluster. Some said he did not have the fire in the belly or lacked confidence, but he was washed up pretty early as a player. Still he loved the game and stayed in it behind the scenes.

When we meet him he is terse, not apparently easy to get along with, divorced, cynical. He does not attend the games. He has tried to make the A's competitive with teams like the Yankees, with none of the money that those teams have to spend on talent or anything else. Unable to get more money and meeting a young man working for the Cleveland Indians from whom he tries to pry some decent players, he becomes fascinated by the young man's assessment of  players based on rather complicated statistical templates.  In this scenario, players that might be good for a team are not the ones that traditional baseball expertise would choose. In fact, traditional baseball would avoid these players like the plague. Beane hires the nerdy, portly kid (based upon a true character I am told who declined to allow his real name to be used for the movie) and over objection from back room to team manager, he cobbles together a motley crue of players, includng an oldster at 37 and a young decent hitting injured kid who used to be a catcher, to whom he assigns first base, which has never been his position.  The common denominator statistically of all these guys, is that they get on base.

At first it is a mess. The team loses every game. The press and the pundits attack wildly as is their characteristic to do. They blame Beane.  Then suddenly just before the All Star game, the A's start to win, to an unprecendented 20 games, a record maker. The press, in its infinite wisdom, now offers its accolades not to Beane but to the manager of the team (a finely tuned performance by Phillip Seymour Hoffman). 

There is not, however, a happy ending. The Oakland A's do not win the World Series. They lose. The general conclusion of those in the know is that the method of team building did not work. As Beane says, it is does not matter what happens before the final game. You lose. It's all bad even, especially the successes that led up to it. You and yours are duds.

One perspicacious owner, however, of the Boston Red Sox, still encumbered by the Curse of the Bambino, sees something in Beane and his method (actually the brain child of another man not in baseball), and offers him the largest sum ever for a General Manager.

Beane does not take it.

Purportedly using the statistical method (and those in baseball know can rightly debate whether or not any method alone explains failure or success in baseball; this is beyond my expertise), without Beane, as everyone knows the Sox ultimately broke the Curse.

Meanwhile, Beane is still with the Athletics today.

Why did he turn down the Sox? Because he once made a decision based on the promise of money, and the guarantee of a success that never came. Now, as a song by his young daughter, reminds him, it isn't about success it is about the "show".  It is about what you love.  It is about making that difference. It is about those intangibles, and damn the opinions of the press or other knowing pundits, who in truth and in fact, have no great insight into reality.

In the eyes of the world, Beane is a loser, but in every way that matters, he is a winner.

I loved this movie. An un-baseball baseball movie appealing to fans and non-fans alike.

Go, see it. Brad, you weren't on my unimportant list of great actors before,  but this performance really was exceptional. Good for you! Good for us!

Enjoy the show, folks. It is very short. Make the decisions you believe are best, not the ones that others press upon you.

If I Didn't Have to Work I'd. . . .

You know you have said it. More than once. "If I didn't have to work, I'd finally get to do all those things that I really wanted to do all my life!" There. The reason you don't do all the things you want to do is because your job is in the way. That's it. That's where the blame lies. Ok, not blame, that's what the reason is.

Some early observations, and we'll see if there is any advice to come out of them.

Before I was tossed unceremoniously onto my professional a--, I had already been making lists, lots of them, careful ones and scribbled ones, of all the things I wanted to do just as soon as I was "free". They included, but were not limited to (she said in lawyer speak): writing those scripts for ideas I have had for ages, and two book ideas, working with animals at places like Shambala (big cats), my veterinarian, TLC, Animal Avengers, Best Friends (a little unrealistic as they are in Utah, but I still love them), oil painting, returning to the piano (in that regard a bit more than a year ago I had the entire piano refurbished and the pin board replaced--that happened after the refurbishing and a sudden problem developing with the block), singing, working with a particular charity that I have enormous affection for (Sisters Servants of Mary), acting, or otherwise using my voice and animated nature, reading as much as possible, getting another degree, developing my Christian faith, including systematic spiritual direction and the one that everybody jumps for immediately when you talk about not working--travelling.

A large part of the difficulty is contextual. Having a job (or for that matter going to school from K to post graduate), means there are prompts to either your extrinsic or intrinsic motivations. An example. Not all kids want to go to school, (they are not intrinsically motivated) but they have to--they are prompted by that mandate; they are motivated because the having to go motivates them. The kids that like school, well, they are already intrinsically motivated, but the prompt of having to is a nice frame for the day. I think I am mostly an intrinsically motivated person. I always have had ideas of things to do, like learning, but up to July 2011, there was always some kind of prompt, whether it be my mother (who demanded my education, God Bless her), my schools (which demanded my excellence, as did my mother) or having to make a living (which was a combination of ambition and survival). Contextually, then, I now have no external prompt (the job of 25 years is simply poof! courtesy of that delightful thing called "we're going in a different direction") or frame for my intrinsic motivators. Now, if I were 27 (when I came to California) rather than my current lot older age, my wanting to "get ahead" or "make money"  would readily be adjunct to my intrinsic motivation, as it did back then. I am entirely dependent on my intrinsic motivation, sans an externally imposed frame.

This nicely leads to the psychological challenge. Just doing things because I like to, or see a need for it, unconnected to a goal of some form of achievement (having to get a degree, to get a job, to make a living, to advance in the ranks of whatever I am doing) is unfamiliar to me. To the extent that "achievement " is still an internal motivator and it is also somewhat externally motivated as I clearly worry that my not DOING something tangible ("yes, I did publish that book and am making oodles of money) will be cause me to be denominated as "poor Djin she just hasn't figured out what to do with the rest of her life". Ouch.

People have suggested that I open my own law practice. Ouch again. I am a lousy business person and I just spent 25 years seeing what happens to lawyers in private practice who aren't business people. And, the truth of me is that I was not very happy with what I saw prior to my career of the world of private practice. It was actually quite ugly and it ate me up. Where I worked allowed me to sleep at night. I "achieved" there. I went from lowly trial deputy to manager and teacher. And then it was over.  My  view of achievement (internally or externally motivated), and how it is measured and rewarded was pretty well completely blown out of the water when my career ended in five minutes.

I won't go further down the other part of that psychological road (it would be a VERY VERY long blog entry as opposed to just a VERY long blog entry) but suffice it to say after being severed from a successfully performed job, and having never had a family of one's own, one (that is me) wonders about the overall meaning of (my) life. There is the lingering question of what went before so abruptly cancelled by someone you did not even know--what the heck was THAT all about?

Still intrinsically motivated  or not I sometimes wonder if I am a failure at "being free"  Here I am three months in and I haven't completed anything. Shouldn't I have? I guess, and here is another observation, maybe advice to myself and others, it depends on how you define completion, and achievement and success. You know.  Happiness is not about what you have. Happiness is not about the career. Happiness is not about outward success. Blah blah blah.

Now that the flurry of social activity, post firing, has diminished. I have a painting sitting out in my backyard (the one I wrote about like two months ago) which is in rough now, but I just realized I better get that uncompleted thing out of the yard because it looks like it is going to rain. I have taken one in a series of voice artist classes which were a balls, but in hiatus until the beginning of next month, I am wondering where that is going (although I said, and I meant it, I just wanted to have fun and IF it went somewhere gravy on the mashed potatoes).  I am working on two charity projects, one that is new and the other established, and I am not exactly making earthshaking contributions to either, although both have taken a measure of time. I have six story ideas for treatments and scripts and I have begun one (there are actually multiple pages). I have read several books and am in the middle of several more. I have been to the Getty Villa.  I have planned a small trip. And intend others. Will I stay an active lawyer? Well, I'm all paid up for 2011, and a lawyer I remain, but who knows what 2012 will bring.

But today, a gloomy Saturday (weather wise) I haven't done much and it makes me fear that I will become a couch potato 

Being free is not as easy as it seems. Just look at Adam and Eve. They were free. Look what a mess they made! I digress.

What's my point? Heck, I am not sure. Oh, yeah. One might be that "the grass is greener on the other side". Yeah, it's a cliche. But they are out there for a reason. One's happiness or fulfillment is not merely about having the time or freedom to do what you will. And given the cosmic realities, there is no such thing as doing as you will; in fact, maybe it is not a good thing. We are free to do what we ought. I am digressing into philosophical stuff again. The other is that adaptation is key. Things change. You have to accept it, like it or not (I don't like it) and deal with it. The good side is that there is an adventure to be had in the change. Whenever I have simply allowed the adventure to unfold (admittedly rare for me) it has been golden. Advice if you are in my situation, which really, when you think about it is unique (not rich, but having enough, I think), grab it with gusto. Stop trying to make it fit into some pre-conceived notion of a proper outcome. And that old adage, "Be in the present moment". It's really true. When you have had the experience, hasn't it been wonderful?

?Now THIS is free!? --Persephone the Cat.

It is worth that moment to have it be a little challenging on the way. It's kind of like learning a new language or to play an instrument; when you don't know how to, it is really hard, but it does get easier.

Let me end this admittedly rambled entry with some of my "successes" at living in the moment. I think they are worth the struggle that consist of "being free". Watching a mourning dove figure out that a bag held the seed it wanted and, while eyeballing me suspiciously, hopping up to it and plunging its head inside in triumph. Attending Mass more and discovering the richness of my faith, while "resting in the Lord" (ok, holy roller stuff over now). Sitting at the Dialog Cafe with a friend for two or more hours discussing a million different things (This has happened more than once, with different friends). Getting a lovely donation from a young friend for one of the charities I mentioned, just because he trusts and respects me. Getting closer to his family, and his lovely little daughter. Giving her one of my childhood books (The House at Pooh Corner)--kind of keeping the generational thread attached to people I care about, however long or however short that acquaintance may be. Being able to drive my uncle home from the hospital in the middle of what would otherwise have been a work day, seeing so much of my own father in him (the last of the boys of a family of 7) and appreciating as I did not before, what I see, in some look or expression. Writing not only for my own blog, but for someone else's. Making one or two new non-lawyer friends. Being able to take showers in the middle of the day, something I am about to do.

Life is, as one of my best friends says, unfolding just as it should.

Oh, What a Mess!

It is 12:15 a.m. The Djinn is not asleep. So, I shall share a slightly dismal piece of an otherwise fine day because the moral is:  close all detergent containers tightly! 'Cause if you don't you'll have an hour or two of clean up, and alas, quite repetitive cursing (another subject "How Cursing Gets in the Way of Holiness"- look for it on this blog-maybe, or did I do it already. Probably.), for which only you can blame yourself and not the cat that tried to get on the shelf to look out the window thus causing the whole thing to fall.

I had heard the crash, but in my house, with four cats, two of which I ended up with by default, but I guess, alas, I am one of those cat ladys, (Darn), usually nothing serious has fallen, or nothing that cannot be tossed or repaired, so I continued to sit outside as the sun was going down. When I came inside I had the most lovely whiff of linen scented detergent. At first the scent comforted me. And then I realized I hadn't washed anything today. I did yesterday though. And I remembered I had not closed the cap tightly. Why hadn't I? Who knows? I just didn't. I looked to where it had all fallen. To the left of and behind my washing machine in a very small utility porch with an abundance of stuff. A sea of blue goo.

It was like a Rube Goldberg game. Pull out the wire shelf and move it over. Get the cat box out of the way. Clean up the remnants on the floor of the pine litter that was thrown out of the box at last usage. Pull out the washing machine. Find under the washing machine old gunk that has seeped into the goo of the laundry detergent. Grab LOTS of paper towels. Sit on the floor.

In case you are wondering. This is not me. This is an analogy picture. It was way more messy. And I wasn't dressed as nice.

Curse. Throw a couple of things into a hallway. Curse some more. Apologize to God for all the cursing. Lament that I am incapable of holiness. Look for someone to blame. Oh, yeah, I am to blame. I hate that. Keep cats from inspecting the goo which will lead to footprints on my rug.

Two hours later. Did you know that if you Google this problem, spilled liquid laundry detergent, you find out that it is very hard to clean up? Tell me about it. At least I sort of figured out late in the game that you can sweep up the stuff into a dust pan to thin it out on the floor. The brush had to spend time soaking for a long time afterwood. It is done. The floor is very clean. I congratulate myself on the herculean task well done.

I tighten the caps on every cleaning item in the area.

The end. Good night.

Praying at Dawn

My friends and former colleagues know that I am not a morning person. A night person, yes. Even when I was a kid and I was allowed to I could stay up into the wee hours. I always wonder how it was I made it to 8:30 classes in college. Probably only as long as I had to do so.

At  work too, I would come in early as long as my role required, but when flex time was available, I was johnny on the spot to use it. Come in later. Leave later. Stay up later, and begin again.

I am guessing that my religious vocation does not reside in a monastery where matins are 4:30 and they are in bed by I forget when, but way before I even think about it.

I have been involved in assisting a couple of charities and the new head of one, Catholic Relief Services, was making the keynote speech at a Prayer Breakfast today. I was invited by someone in the organization. I am the liason between him and my former pastor, who could not attend. Great. Delightful. A worthwhile event. It began with the rosary in the Cathedral of the Lady of Angels at 6:30 a.m. followed by Mass at 7, and breakfast out in the massive patio at 7:45. I am  usually just rolling over for another hour, or two at 7:45 on an average day.

I had committed myself to attending. I wanted to attend. And whatever else is true about me, once I make that kind of commitment, I usually follow through (I am having a pang of guilt as there was a recent occasion in which I backed out of a commitment, though it was not an early morning one. But it remains a rarity.) So after a lovely dinner with friends last night, and a lament that it would be dark when my archaic alarm clock blasted me out of bed around 5:30 or a bit earlier, I sucked it up and knew I would carry on as promised.

Oh, and that 5:30 came quickly. My eyes burned. My cats wondered how they could have lucked out for so early a meal. I said to myself, "It's only a few hours and then I can come home and take a nap!"

I was out the door and at the Cathedral at 6:30 for the beginning of the first decade of the Luminous mysteries, each decade led by a different bishop of Los Angeles, presided over by the newest Archbishop, Jose Gomez. That the cavernous church was more than two thirds filled astounded me. I was ashamed (a little) of my early moring resistance. More people came in as the decades passed. I found myself in the meditative rhythm and grateful to be a participant.. Although I tend to prefer saying the rosary by myself, or I think I do because I do, saying it with oh, 500 people somehow was a comfort of community, even more so when Mass began and having recently begun reading about the Fathers of the Church, and some of their writings, realized that the community to which I was connected extended two thousand years backward in time.

By the time Mass was over it was fully light, though neither warm nor sunny, more like San Francisco foggy.  Carolyn Woo, the speaker, was raised in Hong Kong, amid the Catholic minority by nuns and she praised her education in particular, and the role of that education in general,more so in these challenging times all over trhe world. There was a table of parochial school kids next to me, in the proverbial uniform. There had been plenty of kids passing me in their plaid skirts and tailored jackets. I remember it well, me the graduate of a Bronx equivalent. It was the best education. And it was in no way narrow. I read all the great books even the ones that might be considered a little racy by those days standards. I learned history not by rote, but by looking at the writings of the American revolutionaries and aware of the nuance and strife that begot a nation of amazing principle. It was all coming back to me in that courtyard listening to the speech. Do you know we even said the Pledge of Allegiance? I haven't said that since I was a kid. It was a revelatory touch of the past, a good part of the past that I realized had formed me. And I missed. I met the impressive Ms. Woo and spent some time listening to her ideas among a small group of lucky participants. And then it was nearly noon. The sun had broken out and the rest of the day was before me. The morning of prayer and meditation and reflections on a Catholic education were over. I was truly glad I had not given into my sloth.

As I write it is after 11 p.m. I have been up nearly 17 hours of a 24 hour day.  I never got to take that nap. I started reading about Latria and Sacrifice in a theology book loaned to me (and it was challenging stuff; I only got through 8 pages before I was exhausted).

Still, I don't think even I, late night denizen, has it in me to spend much more time out of my bed. I think I have to acknowledge that I won't be up for prayer at :6:30 tomorrow morning. 

  Good night my friends. Sleep tight. That's my plan too.