liked the new look so I left it at that. What I had not planned for, and what startled me 25 minutes before I was scheduled to go live, was the rearranging of options: specifically, where in God's name had the link to the live streaming option gone?
To be sure, this was a First World problem. I could have easily posted a note saying either I was cancelling for the day or would go live later. Hardly a matter of life or death. Still, in that frantic moment of disorientation, two realizations hit me. One, as in all matters of personal importance, I need more preparation time before I have to stand and deliver than I usually anticipate. This is true whether I am packing, praying, or preparing pasta with fresh pesto. To stay grounded, I need to give myself ample set-up time in order to receive surprises with something like equanimity. If I build-in adequate time on the front end, I can handle getting lost on my way to an appointment. Or discovering I need to make a last minute substitution in a recipe. Without the space to slow down and reconsider, anxiety is sure to follow. Sheltering in place has given me this gift of awareness: I require twice as much time on the front end of a project than I usually allow. By building extra lead time into my activities I have found I can be fully present to others and myself in the grocery store, the hardware shop, Wal-Mart, or just tending to the chores in our home in the company of Di and Lucie. A small blessing, indeed.
The second insight is similar: if I am to move through each day with a measure of tender awareness I cannot over schedule. Too many activities on any given day makes life feel unsettled. As a recovering workaholic I am grateful to grasp yet another layer of my mania. I always used to feel worn out: as an introvert, being "on" in public was already wearisome, yet I regularly jammed my schedule to stay "productive." This added insult to injury to say nothing of resentment. Life in retirement coupled with the rigors of the pandemic, however, has become a season of self-discovery. Like the Donovan tune from "Brother Sun, Sister Moon" puts it: "Do few things but do them well, take your time go slowly..." The genius of Franciscan spirituality is embodied wisdom simply lived.
Christine Valters Paintner speaks of these realizations as "choosing the way of life over death." My anxiety and the disorientation I experience whenever rushed or without ample time to embrace life's surprises, is a hard master. The ways of death are always harsh even though they have helped me seek alternatives. Jung used to teach that if we greet our wounds and shadows with hospitality - treating them as the naked, alone and imprisoned beings Jesus called us to love in solidarity - then even the ways of death can lead us into greater life. Valters-Paintner writes:
The divine is that power which disrupts everything: it is at heart a great mystery at work. So what if our pilgrimage practice courted holy disruption? What if we welcomed in everything that challenges our perspectives on how the world works, which upsets all the plans we made for ourselves and turns them on their heads? What if we embraced the unknown as sacred wisdom for the unfolding of our lives? What if when life started falling apart, we opened our hearts to welcome the grief and fear that arrived... and considered them as holy guides and windows into the immensity of God? (The Soul of a Pilgrim, p. 111)
The inner monk is that aspect of us which seeks out a whole-hearted connection to God and cultivates the ability to see the sacred shimmering presence everywhere. The inner artist seeks to give form to our inner longings and create beauty in the world. Both the inner monk and inner artist are border-dwellers. Neither fit neatly into mainstream society as they both call for new ways of seeing. The monk calls the world to presence rather than productivity. The monk takes the demanding path of inner work and growth... The monk chooses a simple life in the midst of an abundance of riches (and distractions. Both are outcasts.) For to be an outcast means that we don't align ourselves with the dominant way of thinking. It means we live on the lush and fertile edges of life. (p. 117)
Last night I awoke startled from a deep sleep. In a way I have known in the past 
my soul was shaking me to pay more attention to the choices I make each day for life so that I might let go of the ways of death. Distraction. Disorientation. I silently prayed through this unsettling time saying over and over, "Lord Jesus, grant me peace" and in time found my grounding in grace. During the hour of the wolf, I read another chapter in The Soul of the Pilgrim. "Instead of rushing into the resurrection, we can dwell in the space of unknowing. We must hold death and life in tension. (Like the wisdom of the Triduum) we can be fully present to both the starkness of Friday and the Saturday space between before we can really experience the Resurrection (on Sunday.) So much of our lives are spent in Holy Saturday places as we spend energy resisting and longing for resolution and closure." (p. 123)
Moving slowly, finding that small is holy, doing few things but doing them well, is what feeds me. It allows me to be grounded and tender. Even in this raging contagion, it is the way of the outcast. As I fast this morning in anticipation of a few medical procedures tomorrow I am going to de-clutter my study yet again. I am sorting through my library, too so that after 13 years I can actually find the books I am looking for. As I said before, I am a very slow learner. But, given enough time, I can learn a new way.
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