According to the brilliant and breezy British language expert Mark Forsyth, the word "quarantine just means forty." It's a shortened form of the Italian phrase meaning 40 days, as in Lent, as in the 40 days Jesus spent in the desert. It was first used in English in 1470 in reference to the Lenten experience, not to the plague.
This otherwise minor bit of information caught my attention because of the current coronavirus pandemic as well as my own semi-confinement due to pain and physical therapy in my home. In both cases, it seems, not being alarmed is the key.
It is very easy for me to become discouraged by my spinal stenosis and its effects on my legs. I often fail to take in the comments of my therapist that I am doing well, making good progress. It seems like a hopeless battle at times. Seeing others walk briskly down the street when I am seated at home, unable to walk very far, is upsetting--until I realize how much worse my situation might be, until I realize what fine attention I receive, and until I reflect that I am connected spiritually to a number of friends (and countless strangers) who are disabled. I am not alone.
Most of them keep going, fighting the good fight. I am learning, after many years of good health, that my body has its limits but my mind and will are strong and can give me the positive energy I need to remain hopeful. As Rilke wrote, "Just keep going; no feeling is final."
So it is with the constant media attention to the virus. As with the SARS epidemic, this, too, shall pass. We will endure, even with the inept "leadership" from the Trump administration.
So, as schools and games and conferences are cancelled and people quarantined, it is good to remember that fear makes everything, including our bodies, worse. And like the forty days of Lent, the present ordeal is only a temporary reminder to be patient and hopeful and to put our attention elsewhere.
Showing posts with label Lent. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Lent. Show all posts
Thursday, March 12, 2020
Sunday, March 1, 2015
Thoughts in Solitude
Two Lenten reflections:
1. The most important thing our cat does not know, of all the millions of things she is unaware, is that she is dying. Lizzie, perhaps 19, is a quiet tabby we have had for the past 15 years as an indoor cat; she once enjoyed being outdoors on our porch and at night she would play with me before licking my wife's face in bed.
Now Lizzie sleeps curled up in a corner, half-hidden by a curtain, as if trying to retreat from us. She emerges only to eat and use her box, where she seems slightly disoriented. She has no interest in being playful or being petted. Yet she is spared, as I am not, the keen awareness of age, infirmity, and the coming of death.
I think of this daily now since I am aware of my 93-year-old neighbor who is near death in a nursing home wondering, as he tells me, why he is being kept alive. I have no answer. He must know it would be a great relief for his wife and family if he passed, yet it is not God's will--yet.
My own aging process fills me at times with great dread as I think of being sent to a nursing home to die or picture myself hobbling around my home half-crippled with arthritis. All I can do is find time each day to be grateful for all that is good in my life and to be productive, even when surrounded by reminders of mortality.
None of this is as depressing as it may sound since I am glad to be aware of what is going on since it forces me into prayer and reflection.
2. A shared insight from Richard Rohr, the Franciscan writer: Most of the untold millions of people who have lived on this planet have been poor and powerless, often oppressed. Their history is seldom told. A major exception is the Bible, which uniquely legitimizes those on the bottom while criticizing those with wealth and power. Is it any wonder that the Bible and the faith it records remain alive for countless people?
An important topic for Lenten reflection is being mindful of the poor and marginalized, who are so often unseen in our affluent society. I think of Pope Francis' call for a poor church, "a church for the poor." He does more than speak. This week, a homeless man was buried in a special part of the Vatican cemetery reserved for German priests.
Francis doesn't worry about setting a precedent--if we do this for one, how many more will expect to be buried there? Such is the likely fear of many in powerful places in Rome and elsewhere. And I doubt if the German priests will mind sharing space with a no-body who lived on the streets.
It is good to see the Vatican moving in some surprising new ways to pay attention to the poor, who are the image of Christ among us.
1. The most important thing our cat does not know, of all the millions of things she is unaware, is that she is dying. Lizzie, perhaps 19, is a quiet tabby we have had for the past 15 years as an indoor cat; she once enjoyed being outdoors on our porch and at night she would play with me before licking my wife's face in bed.
Now Lizzie sleeps curled up in a corner, half-hidden by a curtain, as if trying to retreat from us. She emerges only to eat and use her box, where she seems slightly disoriented. She has no interest in being playful or being petted. Yet she is spared, as I am not, the keen awareness of age, infirmity, and the coming of death.
I think of this daily now since I am aware of my 93-year-old neighbor who is near death in a nursing home wondering, as he tells me, why he is being kept alive. I have no answer. He must know it would be a great relief for his wife and family if he passed, yet it is not God's will--yet.
My own aging process fills me at times with great dread as I think of being sent to a nursing home to die or picture myself hobbling around my home half-crippled with arthritis. All I can do is find time each day to be grateful for all that is good in my life and to be productive, even when surrounded by reminders of mortality.
None of this is as depressing as it may sound since I am glad to be aware of what is going on since it forces me into prayer and reflection.
2. A shared insight from Richard Rohr, the Franciscan writer: Most of the untold millions of people who have lived on this planet have been poor and powerless, often oppressed. Their history is seldom told. A major exception is the Bible, which uniquely legitimizes those on the bottom while criticizing those with wealth and power. Is it any wonder that the Bible and the faith it records remain alive for countless people?
An important topic for Lenten reflection is being mindful of the poor and marginalized, who are so often unseen in our affluent society. I think of Pope Francis' call for a poor church, "a church for the poor." He does more than speak. This week, a homeless man was buried in a special part of the Vatican cemetery reserved for German priests.
Francis doesn't worry about setting a precedent--if we do this for one, how many more will expect to be buried there? Such is the likely fear of many in powerful places in Rome and elsewhere. And I doubt if the German priests will mind sharing space with a no-body who lived on the streets.
It is good to see the Vatican moving in some surprising new ways to pay attention to the poor, who are the image of Christ among us.
Friday, February 20, 2015
I never heard so much silence
"I never heard so much silence," says a young woman who comes with a camera to a poor, dying village somewhere in Brazil.
This is the reaction I had while watching her interact with the villagers in the remarkable film "Found Memories," which proved to be an ideal source of reflection on the day after Ash Wednesday, when I was looking for a way to increase my experience of contemplation and silence.
Just watching the scenes, filmed in real life, slowly unfold, without music or narration or artificial light: the scenes are lit like paintings as shutters open to let in the sun or as old people walk around with kerosene lamps. The pace is slow, thank God.
As we watch an old woman bake bread, go the coffee shop in the tiny village, then to the church, nothing much seems to happen--except the big things: life, old age, death, love and memory. And the need to bake bread.
It is impossible to analyze this quiet Brazilian film; it has to be experienced. For me, it was an ideal companion in the beginning of Lent.
This is the reaction I had while watching her interact with the villagers in the remarkable film "Found Memories," which proved to be an ideal source of reflection on the day after Ash Wednesday, when I was looking for a way to increase my experience of contemplation and silence.
Just watching the scenes, filmed in real life, slowly unfold, without music or narration or artificial light: the scenes are lit like paintings as shutters open to let in the sun or as old people walk around with kerosene lamps. The pace is slow, thank God.
As we watch an old woman bake bread, go the coffee shop in the tiny village, then to the church, nothing much seems to happen--except the big things: life, old age, death, love and memory. And the need to bake bread.
It is impossible to analyze this quiet Brazilian film; it has to be experienced. For me, it was an ideal companion in the beginning of Lent.
Sunday, March 30, 2014
Stumbling with the Cross
Lent is about half over, and what have I done? Nothing special. The Pope has gone to confession in full public view, like an ordinary mortal (good for him!).
Instead of confessing my sins, I have been preoccupied with growing old and being aware of a number of frail people older than I who face death. There is considerable suffering all around me. And fear. I try to turn this awareness into a Lenten prayer.
Thomas Keating, the Trappist monk who has done much wonderful work in promoting contemplative prayer, writes out of his own physical frailty that we who endure pain and aging are stumbling along with Christ as he carries the cross: all who suffer are united with him in "the oneness of the human family." We are not alone, and suffering is not pointless.
Jesus, who faced the fear of death that haunts all of us, showed (James Alison writes) that we need not be afraid of the shame and disgrace of dying. He did so willingly, in the full flowering of his manhood, not in old age; he did so without being embittered or resentful. He put his suffering and death in the context of love.
Now, as I contemplate the fate of my friends and family who undergo the pain of growing old, I can join with them in union with the cosmic Christ and see that there is strength in the love that connects us.
Instead of confessing my sins, I have been preoccupied with growing old and being aware of a number of frail people older than I who face death. There is considerable suffering all around me. And fear. I try to turn this awareness into a Lenten prayer.
Thomas Keating, the Trappist monk who has done much wonderful work in promoting contemplative prayer, writes out of his own physical frailty that we who endure pain and aging are stumbling along with Christ as he carries the cross: all who suffer are united with him in "the oneness of the human family." We are not alone, and suffering is not pointless.
Jesus, who faced the fear of death that haunts all of us, showed (James Alison writes) that we need not be afraid of the shame and disgrace of dying. He did so willingly, in the full flowering of his manhood, not in old age; he did so without being embittered or resentful. He put his suffering and death in the context of love.
Now, as I contemplate the fate of my friends and family who undergo the pain of growing old, I can join with them in union with the cosmic Christ and see that there is strength in the love that connects us.
Monday, March 10, 2014
Time Travel
How often I wish I had lived in an earlier time, the period depicted in certain films and books. George F. Kennan, the distinguished statesman and ambassador to Russia, is one of those who wished he had lived 50 or 100 years sooner.
"Life is too full in these times to be comprehensible. We know too many cities to be able to grow into any of them. . . .too many friends to have an real friendships, too many books to know any of them well, and the quality of our impressions gives way to the quantity, so that life begins to seem more like a movie, with hundreds of kaleidoscopic scenes flashing on and off our field of perception, gone before we have time to consider them."
This elegantly phrased reflection was written, believe it or not, in 1927 yet is especially apt today, when many of us long for silence, solitude, a time away from busyness and hurry. We cannot easily take in the big picture of the present age, with all its many competing narratives. We want to slow down the pace of life.
Those who celebrate Lent at this time of year are reminded to put some time aside for contemplation, closing the door to noise and the endless distractions that prevent us from finding either insight or peace.
"Life is too full in these times to be comprehensible. We know too many cities to be able to grow into any of them. . . .too many friends to have an real friendships, too many books to know any of them well, and the quality of our impressions gives way to the quantity, so that life begins to seem more like a movie, with hundreds of kaleidoscopic scenes flashing on and off our field of perception, gone before we have time to consider them."
This elegantly phrased reflection was written, believe it or not, in 1927 yet is especially apt today, when many of us long for silence, solitude, a time away from busyness and hurry. We cannot easily take in the big picture of the present age, with all its many competing narratives. We want to slow down the pace of life.
Those who celebrate Lent at this time of year are reminded to put some time aside for contemplation, closing the door to noise and the endless distractions that prevent us from finding either insight or peace.
Wednesday, February 22, 2012
A different spiritual journey
On the first day of Lent, I suppose I am expected to focus on penance or self-denial or at least something resembling prayer, yet I cannot escape memories of a film we watched this week, "Milarepa" by the Bhutanese director Neten Chokling.
The subject is the leading Tibetan Buddhist mystic named Milarepa (c. 1052-1135), who lived during what seems like a world-wide surge of spiritual energy that touched Europe, Asia and other parts of the world.
Perhaps the appeal of Tibet is its remote beauty and strangeness and the purity of its culture and religion, despite what China has tried to do in this Himalayan kingdom at the top of the world. So, though I know relatively little about Tibetan Buddhism, I am drawn to films like this with their prayer-flags waving in impossibly beautiful alpine reaches.
The film, made in Northern India, is memorable for me because of its haunting, visual beauty, enhanced by a slow pace and the wailing hymns that alternate with the silence. The main disappointment is that this 2006 movie is (I found out at the end) only Part I; Part II, not yet released, was made in 2009 and completes the story of the young mystic in his search for peace.
In Part I, Milarepa has learned that revenge against his greedy, evil relatives will accomplish nothing nor will the lessons of a sorcerer help him. He must travel and meet wise guides to the inner life, including masters of wind meditation that enables Milarepa to travel great distances using internal air. But the full, mature mystic that this great poet, yogi, and saint became is not seen in Part I.
"Any ordinary man can do as I have," he concludes, suggesting that the great discipline of the solitary journey to enlightenment is available to many. For people like me in the Christian West, there is a reminder here of the need for more and more cultivation, in silence and solitude, of the God within, if we are achieve anything resembling individual peace and freedom.
So this story from 11th century Tibet has given me an unexpected suggestion about Lent as a time that is less about repentance and more about trying to hear the still, small voice of God somewhere within me. To hear this, I must let go of my own desires in that spirit of self-denial that has long been part of the Lenten tradition.
The subject is the leading Tibetan Buddhist mystic named Milarepa (c. 1052-1135), who lived during what seems like a world-wide surge of spiritual energy that touched Europe, Asia and other parts of the world.
Perhaps the appeal of Tibet is its remote beauty and strangeness and the purity of its culture and religion, despite what China has tried to do in this Himalayan kingdom at the top of the world. So, though I know relatively little about Tibetan Buddhism, I am drawn to films like this with their prayer-flags waving in impossibly beautiful alpine reaches.
The film, made in Northern India, is memorable for me because of its haunting, visual beauty, enhanced by a slow pace and the wailing hymns that alternate with the silence. The main disappointment is that this 2006 movie is (I found out at the end) only Part I; Part II, not yet released, was made in 2009 and completes the story of the young mystic in his search for peace.
In Part I, Milarepa has learned that revenge against his greedy, evil relatives will accomplish nothing nor will the lessons of a sorcerer help him. He must travel and meet wise guides to the inner life, including masters of wind meditation that enables Milarepa to travel great distances using internal air. But the full, mature mystic that this great poet, yogi, and saint became is not seen in Part I.
"Any ordinary man can do as I have," he concludes, suggesting that the great discipline of the solitary journey to enlightenment is available to many. For people like me in the Christian West, there is a reminder here of the need for more and more cultivation, in silence and solitude, of the God within, if we are achieve anything resembling individual peace and freedom.
So this story from 11th century Tibet has given me an unexpected suggestion about Lent as a time that is less about repentance and more about trying to hear the still, small voice of God somewhere within me. To hear this, I must let go of my own desires in that spirit of self-denial that has long been part of the Lenten tradition.
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