Showing posts with label Joy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Joy. Show all posts
Thursday, August 18, 2011
10:49 AM
'Hurry up, hurry up!' I told my coffee as it steeped. I plopped the last scone into a bag and tried to zip my rucksack singlehandedly. I hoped those goodies would be eaten quickly; there were too many things in my backpack that I had not yet been able to put in the truck transporting our heavier baggage, so I wanted to lighten the load as soon as possible. Ah, five minutes was up, and I began drinking what would be my last cup for at least several days, lingering over each sip even as I eyed my toothbrush.
The sky outside was heavy and overcast. There would be no magenta dawn this year. No matter, I could settle for a rose-hued orb against grey velvet. Checking my plugs, extinguished candles, and gas for the eighteenth time, I finally went running for the bus.
Though twenty and a half miles lay ahead of me, I could not sit down once aboard. Laying my bag in one of the many empty seats at 5:30 AM, I folded my arms and pondered.
What are you doing this year?
I'm going to pray. There you are.
What are you asking for?
I smiled. Reposing in my heart was a strong regard for the intentions of all whom I had known and especially those dear to me. I also planned on carrying up the burden of every soul that watched the procession (friendly or hostile) on the way. However, I was not going to petition for them. I had made the consecration of slavery to the Immaculate Heart of Mary and thus had foresworn the right to ask for anything in such a direct manner.
A priest once chided me in confession for this very literal interpretation of St. Louis de Montfort's consecration, but my own reason could not find in the saint's adamant language any room to maintain petitions at my personal discretion. I was to be a slave and to offer what I had to the Queen, who would present them fittingly before the King and ask Him for the favours she wanted. If I craved something, I could but look upon it, and hope that she might think my desire worthy enough to carry before the throne. For example, I might wish my fast to be offered up for a political crisis, or the pain in my heart to ease that in a sister's, or my rosary to strengthen the sinews of a friend's felicity, yet the Mother of God might use these prayers for something quite different.
In childhood, there were many times when I may have presented a sweet or a flower to my mother, who in turn gave it to a crying sibling. I was always quite put out whenever she had usurped the direction of my gift and to someone who did not deserve it either! However, mothers have a tendency to give blessings to those who merit them least. Understanding that tendency, and in my pride wishing to direct any spiritual works of mercy I might do, I had resisted the consecration from age 13 to 26. A year after having made it though, I was now receiving the consolations of the promise.
'Dear Lady, you know what is near to my heart and all that I long for, but you'll ask the Lord what you think is best for me, and I shall not open my mouth. This year, I promise to relish the peace and joy of the pilgrimage and seek nothing beyond. I ask for--I hope for--nothing.' I clenched my hands, hoping I earnestly meant what I was thinking, and hopped off the bus.
Our assembly must have been a bit smaller than the year before; I was surprised to find a place in a pew at Mass. We piled our rucksacks in the back and knelt with the keen readiness of soldiers at the Sacrifice. When Mass had been said and the Holy Eucharist distributed, I took a moment to read the Vespers' hymn for the Feast of the Transfiguration:
Quicumque Christum quaeritis, All ye who seek full longingly
Oculos in altum tóllite: For Christ, lift up your eyes on high:
 |
| Thank you Marzena! |
Signum perénnis glória. Th' eternal Son, in glorious light.
'O Lord!' I whispered, my throat already choaking and my eyes stinging. Gazing up at the icon of the Black Madonna above the altar, I thought, 'Yes. I shall lift up mine eyes to the Bright Mount, and contemplate Him to whom she gestures.'
Leaving the chapel, we were greeted with silver inches from the misty grey dome of heaven. The humidity in the air promised identical weather to that of 6 August, 2010. I am certain all the pilgrims had the same presentiment as the day progressed and that all hoped to find their transported bags drier than themselves at the day's end.
I exchanged greetings with familiar faces, and it was so lovely to reflect that they were known to me. Two children whom I had met from the year before, M. and O. (not at this time wishing to be 'Frodo' and 'Pippin'), seemed delighted that I remembered their names, and I soon found two ready walking companions who did not much mind my unpolished Polish.
Happily, more pilgrims joined us later, and many more walked with us to the outskirts of Warszawa to see us off. The sun shone, and the rain fell in turn. Yet, this time, when we arrived at our destination, the baggage was perfectly dry. It was also a little blessing to be encamped at the same idyllic homestead as last year.
Yet, I was informed that the man owned it had endured many trials, having lost both his wife and one of his children. He was congenial with the pilgrims and generous with his property, and it seemed a pity that I might not offer up a particular Ave for his sake.
Say one up anyway, and it shall be for someone.
Yes, for whomever it was, this pilgrimage would surely be for someone.
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Friday, August 5, 2011
Alas, that I could not finish my current essay before the pilgrimage started! But that is not such a great regret when I think of the nine, blessed days stretching out before me.I have tucked my readers' intentions into the mantle of Our Lady; may she hold you all near the Heart of her Son.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Wounded bodies retreat. The natural reaction of one who is in pain is to curl up, not to sprawl. An affectionate dog becomes an aggressive mongrel when it hurts; snails pull into their shells at the approach of a finger, and all injured animals flee into their hovels, regardless of whom or what is approaching.
Man however is both matter and spirit. As an animal, he keeps his broken arm protectively pinned to his breast. As he is rational, he stretches it vulnerably forth for a physician to examine it. His reason triumphs over his flesh with ease regarding physical pain. It is a much greater challenge for the wisdom of man's soul to counsel the pains of his heart or the worries of his mind. Worst of all is when that wisdom faulters in itself, and he is plagued by doubts.
No doctor can heal a man, and no teacher can enlighten him. What a doctor can do is remove the splinter, set the limb, or kill the germ. Then the body must reknit its flesh, reunite its bone, or rebuild after the devastation of disease. The medic removes impediments, so the body may heal itself. A teacher may debunk error, construct syllogisms, and demonstrate facts. The student must be attentive and willing for his own reason to truly imbibe the lesson. Man then can only help man by prompting; he can never reach into his brother and assist him directly. That must be a thing his brother does for himself.
This truth applies to the healing properties of the rest of creation. As I look out at a clear sky with the bright hue of a robin's egg, at the silvery green of trees just budding forth, feel the warmth of the sun through my window and the crisp breeze wisping through the room, I am thoroughly aware of the fact that were I miserable, these things would be give me no delight.
I may offer a piece of cake to a man grouchy about the traffic, not to a man whose car has been stolen. Sunshine gladdens the heart after winter, not after the destruction of one's home. The sudden appearance of a Mandarin Duck beneath the bushes by the canal is uplifting on a dull day, not after the death of a loved one. In fact, wed with grief, these erstwhile joyous things but exacerbate pain. A tragedy occurring in the Christmas season is worse for that fact.
Yet, when pain so engulfed me last autumn that I felt my soul had been cloven in two from crown to toe, I found myself inexplicably soothed as I lay on the stiff mattress of a hostel in Kraków. The trumpet rang out from the basilica, at first melodiously intoning the Marian hymn and then dying abruptly. I breathed out a sigh and went gladly to sleep.
The next day found me on my knees in the Adoration Chapel of the Franciscan Church--the chapel of Our Lady of Sorrows. It glowed from the light of the arched windows, glaringly white and opaque but for a colourful image set in the middle, each one depicting one of the Seven Sorrows of Our Lady. The walls by contrast were comfortingly dark and lushly decorated. Skies of midnight blue and studded with gold stars spread across the low, vaulted ceiling. Vines of flowers and ivy crept up the walls in deep shades of green, purple, and red. One might have been in the Garden of Gethsemane.
And behind the resplendent, gold monstrance, was an image of the Virgin Mother. Her posture was neither straight, nor bending. Her form leaned away as if startled or repelled. The spirit, however, rejected the instinct of the flesh, and so her neck remained submissively bent. Her eyes were as red as blood, and two inexhaustible streams of tears poured forth from those swollen orbs. Her hands were in prayer, though barely pressed together, the fingers hardly touching one another, as if it exhausted her strength to raise her arms but that high.
I had hoped for an answer in that chapel. I received none, and like a surly child, I attempted to resist consolation. No, I would sorrow if I could not have what I asked for, and guidance did not seem like such a great boon to crave anyhow. Yet, as I gazed at her, and then at the Host, I felt my burdens ease, even against my will. For all things in this passing life give us but transient joys and pains. The sheep may desire the Shepherd to fill their trough with water, to be comforted by its steady supply, but if He comes to them one by one with nothing but a cup in His hand, this must be accepted.
Yet, I felt urged again to rebel.
'O Lord, give me enough to be satiated!'
'Nay, you shall have but enough to go on.'
Yet, I did not wish to go on feeling as I did. The self within me wanted to dash that insulting little cup to earth. Give me a stream of life, not a thimble! But I looked at her again. Emptied of strength and being emptied further still, she stood in a posture of prayer.
She opened not her mouth to curse nor to sob, but with pressed lips and pressed palms, wept before the Passion of Our Lord.
I heard the congregation rising in the main body of the church, and the Communion hymn was intoned. I wrung my hands and wondered if should I receive the Body and Blood. I felt devastated, frustrated, and indignant. But I did not feel alone. And like most sulky children, all I truly wanted was for my parents to come find me in my shadowy corner and plead with me to come out. But they could only beg me; they could not make me open my arms to them like and automaton and spring forth from my gloom. I could drink the cup the Shepherd offered and trudge further up the mount, hoping for more draughts along the way, or I could perish of thirst in the barren ravine with only my pride for company.
Communion would be over soon if I did not hurry, so with the embarrassment of a difficult relative who at last decides to attend the party, I hurried out to receive my Lover in the guise of Bread.
Since that painful episode I have received my answer, though it was an arduous journey to attain it. As the Triduum approaches, those of us who are happy must prepare to reflect on pain. Those of us who are miserable must strive to unite our woes with those of God. Easter is not a holiday that rushes on us, attempting to twist our hearts and minds to adjust to its mood. This solemn occasion bends the whole of the earth unto itself, drawing us out of our personal lives into its mysteries. Its commerical delights are not strong enough or distracting enough to drown its importance as, alas, is the case with many souls concerning Christmas. Easter's plunge into the abyss of misery is deep enough to pull any soul out of its gloom and into the light of the Resurrection.
On the Great Night forthcoming, the true Healer and the true Teacher is yearning to right your soul. If the day itself is the only consolation offered, do not resist, weary pilgrim. Do not curl up your limbs and hide your wounded self. Quench the cup, and march onward. If you do not find your answer, you will always have the Answer.
Man however is both matter and spirit. As an animal, he keeps his broken arm protectively pinned to his breast. As he is rational, he stretches it vulnerably forth for a physician to examine it. His reason triumphs over his flesh with ease regarding physical pain. It is a much greater challenge for the wisdom of man's soul to counsel the pains of his heart or the worries of his mind. Worst of all is when that wisdom faulters in itself, and he is plagued by doubts.
No doctor can heal a man, and no teacher can enlighten him. What a doctor can do is remove the splinter, set the limb, or kill the germ. Then the body must reknit its flesh, reunite its bone, or rebuild after the devastation of disease. The medic removes impediments, so the body may heal itself. A teacher may debunk error, construct syllogisms, and demonstrate facts. The student must be attentive and willing for his own reason to truly imbibe the lesson. Man then can only help man by prompting; he can never reach into his brother and assist him directly. That must be a thing his brother does for himself.
This truth applies to the healing properties of the rest of creation. As I look out at a clear sky with the bright hue of a robin's egg, at the silvery green of trees just budding forth, feel the warmth of the sun through my window and the crisp breeze wisping through the room, I am thoroughly aware of the fact that were I miserable, these things would be give me no delight.
I may offer a piece of cake to a man grouchy about the traffic, not to a man whose car has been stolen. Sunshine gladdens the heart after winter, not after the destruction of one's home. The sudden appearance of a Mandarin Duck beneath the bushes by the canal is uplifting on a dull day, not after the death of a loved one. In fact, wed with grief, these erstwhile joyous things but exacerbate pain. A tragedy occurring in the Christmas season is worse for that fact.
Yet, when pain so engulfed me last autumn that I felt my soul had been cloven in two from crown to toe, I found myself inexplicably soothed as I lay on the stiff mattress of a hostel in Kraków. The trumpet rang out from the basilica, at first melodiously intoning the Marian hymn and then dying abruptly. I breathed out a sigh and went gladly to sleep.
The next day found me on my knees in the Adoration Chapel of the Franciscan Church--the chapel of Our Lady of Sorrows. It glowed from the light of the arched windows, glaringly white and opaque but for a colourful image set in the middle, each one depicting one of the Seven Sorrows of Our Lady. The walls by contrast were comfortingly dark and lushly decorated. Skies of midnight blue and studded with gold stars spread across the low, vaulted ceiling. Vines of flowers and ivy crept up the walls in deep shades of green, purple, and red. One might have been in the Garden of Gethsemane.
And behind the resplendent, gold monstrance, was an image of the Virgin Mother. Her posture was neither straight, nor bending. Her form leaned away as if startled or repelled. The spirit, however, rejected the instinct of the flesh, and so her neck remained submissively bent. Her eyes were as red as blood, and two inexhaustible streams of tears poured forth from those swollen orbs. Her hands were in prayer, though barely pressed together, the fingers hardly touching one another, as if it exhausted her strength to raise her arms but that high. I had hoped for an answer in that chapel. I received none, and like a surly child, I attempted to resist consolation. No, I would sorrow if I could not have what I asked for, and guidance did not seem like such a great boon to crave anyhow. Yet, as I gazed at her, and then at the Host, I felt my burdens ease, even against my will. For all things in this passing life give us but transient joys and pains. The sheep may desire the Shepherd to fill their trough with water, to be comforted by its steady supply, but if He comes to them one by one with nothing but a cup in His hand, this must be accepted.
Yet, I felt urged again to rebel.
'O Lord, give me enough to be satiated!'
'Nay, you shall have but enough to go on.'
Yet, I did not wish to go on feeling as I did. The self within me wanted to dash that insulting little cup to earth. Give me a stream of life, not a thimble! But I looked at her again. Emptied of strength and being emptied further still, she stood in a posture of prayer.
She opened not her mouth to curse nor to sob, but with pressed lips and pressed palms, wept before the Passion of Our Lord.I heard the congregation rising in the main body of the church, and the Communion hymn was intoned. I wrung my hands and wondered if should I receive the Body and Blood. I felt devastated, frustrated, and indignant. But I did not feel alone. And like most sulky children, all I truly wanted was for my parents to come find me in my shadowy corner and plead with me to come out. But they could only beg me; they could not make me open my arms to them like and automaton and spring forth from my gloom. I could drink the cup the Shepherd offered and trudge further up the mount, hoping for more draughts along the way, or I could perish of thirst in the barren ravine with only my pride for company.
Communion would be over soon if I did not hurry, so with the embarrassment of a difficult relative who at last decides to attend the party, I hurried out to receive my Lover in the guise of Bread.
Since that painful episode I have received my answer, though it was an arduous journey to attain it. As the Triduum approaches, those of us who are happy must prepare to reflect on pain. Those of us who are miserable must strive to unite our woes with those of God. Easter is not a holiday that rushes on us, attempting to twist our hearts and minds to adjust to its mood. This solemn occasion bends the whole of the earth unto itself, drawing us out of our personal lives into its mysteries. Its commerical delights are not strong enough or distracting enough to drown its importance as, alas, is the case with many souls concerning Christmas. Easter's plunge into the abyss of misery is deep enough to pull any soul out of its gloom and into the light of the Resurrection.
On the Great Night forthcoming, the true Healer and the true Teacher is yearning to right your soul. If the day itself is the only consolation offered, do not resist, weary pilgrim. Do not curl up your limbs and hide your wounded self. Quench the cup, and march onward. If you do not find your answer, you will always have the Answer.
Regina coeli, laetare, alleluia: Quia quem meruisti portare, alleluia. Resurrexit sicut dixit, alleluia. Ora pro nobis Deum, alleluia.
V. Gaude et laetare, Virgo Maria, Alleluia,
R. Quia surrexit Dominus vere, alleluia.
Friday, January 1, 2010
I make it a point never to make New Year's resolutions concerning diet and exercise. In fact, that's a resolution in and of itself. But there is a greater one, that I have tried to resolve upon, but am still praying for the disposition to will it. I asked for it last year, and this year I ask for it again.
Previously published on 31/12/2007 at foolishnessntears.blog.com.
Even as we rejoice on the feast of the Holy Family, we are asked to reflect on what is often called the second sorrow of Mary. For the only human that has ever loved God perfectly, sorrow came swiftly on the wings of her joy. It touched her first at the prophecy of Simeon: ‘“And thy own heart a sword shall pierce, that the thoughts of many may be laid bare.”’ (Luke 2: 35), and again, when Joseph roused her from sleep to say they must flee for the Christ Child’s Life:
And after the Magi were departed, behold an angel of the Lord appeared in sleep to Joseph, saying: Arise, and take the Child and his mother, and fly into Egypt : and be there until I shall tell thee. For it will come to pass that Herod will seek the Child to destroy Him. Who arose, and took the child and his mother by night, and retired into Egypt: and he was there until the death of Herod: That it might be fulfilled which the Lord spoke by the prophet, saying: Out of Egypt have I called My Son. (Matt 2: 13-15)
This world constantly presses one to choose between spiritual and corporeal good, but it is hardest to see this burden forced on those one loves. A mother does not wish her child either to suffer or to do evil, and she is most pained when her beloved must choose between the two. In Second Maccabaeus (7: 1-30), a mother had to watch as her seven sons chose between the Law of Moses and their lives, before she followed them in death. Many Faithful mothers had to endure the same under the Roman persecution.
Yet, even in ages of peace, one cannot escape sacrifice. In one of the storybooks I read to my eleven-year old, Korean English students, the explosion of the space shuttle, Challenger, was briefly mentioned, and all the children wanted to know how the tragedy happened. Having slightly explained the ‘how’ of the tragedy, I pointed out the dangers of all discoveries or explorations, technical, medical, etc.
‘Each time an astronaut goes on a shuttle, he must say to himself: “I might die.” He knows this.’ Seeing their expressions I had to ask, ‘Do you think you would ever choose a job like this?’ Adamant negatives echoed about the room, until my eye fell on Alice, one of the particularly sweet and intelligent students.
‘What do you think Alice ?’ She raised her head, which had been thoughtfully bent, and said firmly, ‘Yes, I would. Because even I die, my work helps future peoples to live a better life.’ Tears ran down my face, and my heart swelled in admiration. In a way, all my students are my babies, whom I would wish always to protect. Looking into Alice ’s earnest face, I saw a soul—precious to me—that would allow her mortal life to be extinguished for the sake of the good. That night I prayed she would never have to make this sacrifice, but that she would always be willing to. A fearful intention to lay at the feet of God.
I always thought it odd that the fourth joyful mystery of the rosary, the Presentation of Jesus in the Temple, was also the first true sorrow of Mary. How fittingly it is called a ‘mystery’, for the enigma called the heart rejoiced in Joseph and Mary at the third recognition of the Child, but it was joined with the bitterest truth. The lesson accompanying the mystery is also fitting: I desire a spirit of sacrifice.
Previously published on 31/12/2007 at foolishnessntears.blog.com.
Even as we rejoice on the feast of the Holy Family, we are asked to reflect on what is often called the second sorrow of Mary. For the only human that has ever loved God perfectly, sorrow came swiftly on the wings of her joy. It touched her first at the prophecy of Simeon: ‘“And thy own heart a sword shall pierce, that the thoughts of many may be laid bare.”’ (Luke 2: 35), and again, when Joseph roused her from sleep to say they must flee for the Christ Child’s Life:
And after the Magi were departed, behold an angel of the Lord appeared in sleep to Joseph, saying: Arise, and take the Child and his mother, and fly into Egypt : and be there until I shall tell thee. For it will come to pass that Herod will seek the Child to destroy Him. Who arose, and took the child and his mother by night, and retired into Egypt: and he was there until the death of Herod: That it might be fulfilled which the Lord spoke by the prophet, saying: Out of Egypt have I called My Son. (Matt 2: 13-15)
This world constantly presses one to choose between spiritual and corporeal good, but it is hardest to see this burden forced on those one loves. A mother does not wish her child either to suffer or to do evil, and she is most pained when her beloved must choose between the two. In Second Maccabaeus (7: 1-30), a mother had to watch as her seven sons chose between the Law of Moses and their lives, before she followed them in death. Many Faithful mothers had to endure the same under the Roman persecution.
Yet, even in ages of peace, one cannot escape sacrifice. In one of the storybooks I read to my eleven-year old, Korean English students, the explosion of the space shuttle, Challenger, was briefly mentioned, and all the children wanted to know how the tragedy happened. Having slightly explained the ‘how’ of the tragedy, I pointed out the dangers of all discoveries or explorations, technical, medical, etc.
‘Each time an astronaut goes on a shuttle, he must say to himself: “I might die.” He knows this.’ Seeing their expressions I had to ask, ‘Do you think you would ever choose a job like this?’ Adamant negatives echoed about the room, until my eye fell on Alice, one of the particularly sweet and intelligent students.
‘What do you think Alice ?’ She raised her head, which had been thoughtfully bent, and said firmly, ‘Yes, I would. Because even I die, my work helps future peoples to live a better life.’ Tears ran down my face, and my heart swelled in admiration. In a way, all my students are my babies, whom I would wish always to protect. Looking into Alice ’s earnest face, I saw a soul—precious to me—that would allow her mortal life to be extinguished for the sake of the good. That night I prayed she would never have to make this sacrifice, but that she would always be willing to. A fearful intention to lay at the feet of God.
I always thought it odd that the fourth joyful mystery of the rosary, the Presentation of Jesus in the Temple, was also the first true sorrow of Mary. How fittingly it is called a ‘mystery’, for the enigma called the heart rejoiced in Joseph and Mary at the third recognition of the Child, but it was joined with the bitterest truth. The lesson accompanying the mystery is also fitting: I desire a spirit of sacrifice.
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About Me
- Jacobitess
- Warsaw, Poland
- Domine, spero quia mundum vicisti. Lord, I trust that Thou hast overcome the world. Panie, ufam, żeś pokonał świat.