our summer hiatus...

We are in the midst of our annual summer escape from the USA tour of Quebec's Eastern Townships: the hoopla and hype, the crass jingoism and MAGA madness that now permeates the Fourth of July has become intolerable. And just to add insult to injury, there's America's obsessive hand-wringing re: President Biden's health that's been exaggerated, manipulated, and twisted daily by frantic polling that's ostensibly been conducted to measure the micro heart palpitations of the electorate but is actually designed to keep us all anxious, angry, and afraid a la 1984. We started getting out of Dodge at least once during July about 15 years ago and have now extended this to include an annual retreat during the American Thanksgiving/Black Friday insanity. Like David Bowie sang with help from Nine Inch Nails: I'm afraid of Americans!

This summer our retreat is being housed in a refurbished Quebecois trapper's cabin with a nod to the 1600's in New France. We booked expecting an adventure and were both stunned and delighted to find a rebuilt chapel in the backyard as well as a mighty rustic cabin. What a treat! So we're resting a LOT, talking about our aging lives, walking slowly around Lac Orford, and savoring  the stillness and solitude of Mother Nature. 

This year we have Lucie with us as her kennel was all booked - and she's holding her own. Some of you know her as our special needs dog who requires careful handling: when rattled, she sadly gives new meaning to compulsive anxiety disorder. But with patience and tenderness she can find her way through the chaos to make the best of it. For the past 8 years, Lucie has been helping me stay grounded and without (too many) expectations. In a totally upside down way, she is one of my spiritual mentors along with reclaiming prayer according to the guidelines the late Fr. Ed Hays crafted in: Prayers for the Domestic Church. 

Silence is one of the blessings of these retreats: there is NO TV and precious little internet so we literally become secular monastics shunning the busyness of culture for long periods of solitude and study. We get a bit of walking in, too whenever Di's back allows it and take long drives in the countryside to soak in the beauty. Today we found our way to one of the lake's inlets, drove through the neighborhood of wealthy chalet owners, ate tourtière and monk's cheese for lunch, and will bring the day to a close sipping red wine and reading the new Ian Rankin (Rebus) novel aloud. Tomorrow we're off to walk about Louise Penny country and check out the local bookstore before returning to retreat central.

Last night I came across this poem by Naomi Shihab Nye that warrants a mention given the political and cultural chaos that currently grips our homeland. It isn't about the USA but the last line rings so true.

Before I Was a Gazan - Naomi Shihab Nye (1952 – )
I was a boy
and my homework was missing,
paper with numbers on it,
stacked and lined,
I was looking for my piece of paper,
proud of this plus that, then multiplied,
not remembering if I had left it
on the table after showing to my uncle
or the shelf after combing my hair
but it was still somewhere
and I was going to find it and turn it in,
make my teacher happy,
make her say my name to the whole class,
before everything got subtracted
in a minute
even my uncle
even my teacher
even the best math student and his baby sister
who couldn’t talk yet.
And now I would do anything
for a problem I could solve.

As Ms. Shihab Nye notes: there is tranquility and purpose before "everything got subtracted in a minute... and now I would do anything for a problem I could resolve." Life in the United States continues to become increasingly unhinged, vicious, and dangerous - and that's not going to change any time soon. Sadly,  we are in this mess until this era plays itself out; and from my perspective that means making peace with problems we cannot currently solve. We must learn to endure. And accept. And reclaim what is holy in the most ordinary and small places. We must strengthen our affection for one another while the desecration continues. And find ways, like Anne Frank, to return thanks every day. By faith, I trust that the violence and danger to come is not the end of our story. The Paschal Mystery is unequivocal: God can and does transform some tragedies into opportunities for new life for those committed to peace, love, and justice. Our calling is to nourish a deep reservoir of patience and prayer that we can share as the brutality intensifies.