Waking early, with two days of leisure before me, I am pleased with a reduction in work hours, reflective once again. Yesterday was another turnaround shift rotation, second to first, leaving me exhausted once again. Age aware, I did nothing more than sit outside the Evans amphitheater at Cain Park watching people, witnessing, content with watching an older crowd mingle before settling in for a Herman and the Hermits concert beneath a setting sun, followed by popcorn and porch sitting with Carter. Distant yet a part, I felt comfortable, writing a poem about aging, allowing love to arise as a predominate aspect of life. An early evening mass with Mercerdarian priest at Our Lady of Mount Carmel Italian parish, a communal Rosary alongside an older woman who sits with me quite often before the Eucharist at St Paul’s Shrine. Speculating with a good heart, the woman struggles a bit with mental issues. I have determined I will approach her, informing if there is ever anything I can do for her to please allow me the privilege of assisting her. Once again, to serve is to bring meaning to my life. It would be such an honor to be of benefit to her. She is an older woman turning her life over completely to worship, a person sharing a transformative communal bond. Details disappearing, it is enough. An interesting thing occurred during Father’s Justin’s mass, an overwhelming longing for St Paul’s has settled into my heart. Yearning, I missed my noon mass and adoration. The Eucharist and the Poor Clares’ home has become a tangible presence centered within my being. Without a daily encounter, I feel a bit empty. Marching forward in the Our Lady Undoer of Knots novena–an untying, splendid communal prayer with the Mercerdarians and an Indian man discerning a vocation seated upon the sanctuary, I contemplated the cloistered life, the establishing of a religious home, redundant, repetitive, intense practicing of my faith in order to properly unravel myself. My time at the friary was not long enough, yet I comprehend the depth existing within praying daily in the same spot, possessing my individual choir stall, a nest. Reading material assembled, Rosaries, prayer cards, images, a Bible, Liturgy of the Hours collection—it all becomes transformative. Metamorphoses, transformation, transfiguration, becoming, the idea of dying to self in order to come into actuality as a follower of Christ. Psychological healing, overcoming shortcomings, removing blockage, a lifetime of alcoholism assuaged, the cloistered life, a deep prayer life, routine and stability, a comforting environ, a spiritual nest, the egg of something truly unique cared for, a mother bird resting, sitting, warming, waiting for the hatching. I reflect upon the image of the ostrich as a mother in Job. It is the spiritual life of the many. In the Old Testament book of Job, the ostrich laying her egg upon the surface of the earth is presented as an image. Wandering away, exposing the egg to predators and the elements, the ostrich is contrasted with the stork, a loving mother going above and beyond to ensure the safety of her eggs. Speaking from the whirlwind the Lord speaks to Job: The wings of the ostrich wave proudly (majority of devout Catholics); but are they the pinions and plumage of love? For she leaves her eggs to the earth, and lets them be warmed on the ground, forgetting that a foot may crush them, and that the wild beast may trample them. She deals cruelly with her young, as if they were not hers; though her labor be in vain, yet she has no fear; because God has made her forget wisdom, and given her no share in understanding. When she rouses herself to flee, she laughs at the horse and his rider (secular world). “Do you give the horse his might? Do you clothe his neck with strength…His majestic snorting is terrible. He paws in the valley, and exults in his strength; he goes out to meet the weapons. He laughs at fear, and is not dismayed; he does not turn back from the sword…fierceness and rage he swallows the ground; he cannot stand still at the sound of the trumpet…. The lack of depth existing within such a spiritual life is truly childish, even dangerous, and it is not the practitioner to blame. The world is hard, being human is complex, and easily, naturally, do we give the horse its strength.

Storks nesting in Ephesus

Older, slowly flowing away, dissipation, Herman and the Hermits,
Through watching towers ascending, fading, the accumulation never ending, a finality appears,
Through brickyard walkways calling forth evenings remembered, crescendos once demanding,
Now silent endeavors, white hair, watching rock-n-roll without passion, unwanting, clapping hands in contentment,
Expecting nothing, dreaming nothing, reminiscent of all things and nothing, at peace within a small crowd within a simple evening,
Funny how details disappear, yet everything remains imprinted, people together appeases yet distance remains, no need for new friends, no corruption in people gathering,
Life long, life pleasant through the pain, teenagers now still hearts beating through the advancement of experience, memories, comfortable, allowing subtle drums pounding to pace,
It was worth it, love emerging above all things, bitterness brittle broken, hardness softened through previous rains, within storms defenses lowered, blessings counted within every breath, nothing taken for granted
A friendly hello from a stranger, nothing more, nothing wanted, no invasion, everyone a part of the same game, advancements no longer necessary as nowhere to go remains the same, consistency in no longer desiring, uneventful appreciated amidst an event,
A crowd gathering, ushers assisting, seats being taken, nobody pushing to gain in the enterprise of a mutual refrain,
Here it comes, the same old songs from youth, now wiser, realizing nothing means nothing, the glory of greatness through faith, hope, and charity allowing the embracing of tumultuous times in absolute reserve,
Let it go, enjoy the show.

A final note, I was contacted by the priest from the Congregation of the Blessed Sacrament. Pleasant telephone conversation, a French name I believe. He will be out of town for the next week, putting time between our meeting, if there is to be one. Thy Will be done. I also received a card, wonderful photo of Padre Pio, from the Franciscan Brothers Minor.

Spiritual direction from St Peter Eymard regarding a transformative lay religious life: “Belong entirely to God through love, entirely to your neighbor through a gracious charity, entirely to the divine Eucharist by the offering and sacrifice of your whole self. Bear with yourself in the patience of our Lord.”  The saint is telling us to be accepting of ourselves.  We are human.  Perfectionism is spiritually crippling–contentment within progress, rather than a concentration upon perfection.

More St Peter Eymard, this one really makes me smile: “A life that is purely contemplative cannot be fully Eucharistic: the fireplace has a flame.”

The Eucharist as a fireplace