They called me to the Window, for
“Twas Sunset”–Some one said–
I only saw a Sapphire Farm–
And just a Single Herd–
Of Opal Cattle–feeding far
Upon so vain a Hill–
As even while I looked–dissolved–
Nor Cattle were–nor Soil–
But in their stead–a Sea–displayed–
And Ships–of such a size
As Crew of Mountains–could afford–
And Decks–to seat the skies–
This–too–the Showman rubbed away–
And when I looked again–
Nor Farm–nor Opal Herd–was there–
Nor Mediterranean–
Emily Dickinson
The value of work with respect to prayer depends very much on the attitude we bring to it. Work is a human reality willed by God, and has intrinsic value, if we accomplish it with all good will. Apart from the intention with which we do it, it has been explicitly willed for us by the Lord: ‘The Lord God took man and set him in the garden of Eden to till it and keep it’ (Genesis 2:15). We have to acknowledge, however, that in certain cases the work, if it is done conscientiously, is not compatible with prayer, or that the actual dispositions of the monk make it impossible for his work to be effectively a prayer. Prayer and work will then be juxtaposed, and not directly related.
We can be faced with several possibilities:
–work is an aid to prayer,
–work seems to be neutral in regards to prayer,
–work is actually an obstacle to prayer.
‘The Wound of Love’ A. Carthusian
a poem by Christina Rossetti
Come to me in the silence of the night;
Come in the speaking silence of a dream;
Come with soft rounded cheeks and eyes as bright
As sunlight on a stream;
Come back in tears,
O memory, hope, love of finished years.
Oh dream how sweet, too sweet, too bitter sweet,
Whose wakening should have been in Paradise,
Where souls brimfull of love abide and meet;
Where thirsting longing eyes
Watch the slow door
That opening, letting in, lets out no more.
Yet come to me in dreams, that I may live
My very life again tho’ cold in death:
Come back to me in dreams, that I may give
Pulse for pulse, breath for breath:
Speak low, lean low,
As long ago, my love, how long ago.
For many years she (Christina Rossetti) had been an invalid, and lived a life of singular seclusion in Torrington Square, one of the dreariest and least romantic of London thoroughfares. Latterly she had been an acute sufferer from a wearing disease, borne with silent fortitude.
One after another, her mother, and the two aunts to whom she devoted her tenderest care, were taken from her; and her brother William Michael, the critic and editor of Shelley, was the only survivor of the brilliant circle in which her life began.
Her fervent religious faith, inspired and matured by desolate experience, had nothing dreary or undecided about it; it issued in a sedulous dutifulness and a patient devotion that were the best proof of its sincerity.
This deliberate act of putting ourselves in God’s presence sometimes requires an effort. We have to lay our worries aside, along with everything else we have on our minds or occupying our imaginations, in order to turn resolutely to face God and direct our attention and love to him. Before doing that, a sort of “airlock moment” to clear our heads can sometimes help us to rid ourselves of any agitation and enter into prayer: a five-minute walk, some moments of relaxation or deep breathing, a calm cup of tea. Sometimes our time of prayer must be preceded by a sort of psychological threshold that eases the transition from everyday stress to this very different kind of activity, made up largely of receptivity, which is prayer.
Thirsting for Prayer by Father Jacques Philippe
Ordained in Viviers in 1901, he (Charles de Foucauld) decided to settle in the Algerian Sahara at Béni Abbès. His ambition was to form a new congregation, but nobody joined him. Taking the religious name “Brother Charles of Jesus”, he lived with the Berbers, adopting a new apostolic approach, preaching not through sermons, but through his example. In order to become more familiar with the Tuareg, he studied their culture for over twelve years, using a pseudonym to publish the first Tuareg-French dictionary. He collected hundreds of Tuareg poems (paying a few sous to anyone who would bring poems to his hermitage) which he translated into French. He censored nothing in the poems, and never changed anything that might not conform to Catholic morality. De Foucauld’s works are a reference point for the understanding of Tuareg culture.
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