I came across this video, ‘Salve Regina’, discovering the Estonian composer Arvo Part.  Here are words on the man:  Living in the old Soviet Union, Arvo Pärt had little access to what was happening in contemporary Western music but, despite such isolation, the early 1960s in Estonia saw many new methods of composition being brought into use and Arvo Pärt was at the fore-front…..Official judgement of Arvo Pärt’s music veered between extremes, with certain works being praised while others, for example the Credo of 1968, were banned…Arvo Pärt chose to enter the first of several periods of contemplative silence, also using the time to study French and Franco-Flemish choral part music from the 14th to 16th centuries…”a joyous piece of music” but not yet “the end of my despair and search.”…..Arvo Pärt turned again to self-imposed silence, during which time he delved back through the medievalism of his 3rd Symphony and through plainchant to the very dawn of musical invention. He re-emerged in 1976 after a transformation so radical as to make his previous music almost unrecognizable…The technique he invented, or discovered, and to which he has remained loyal, practically without exception, he calls tintinnabuli (from the Latin, little bells), which he describes thus: “I have discovered that it is enough when a single note is beautifully played. This one note, or a silent beat, or a moment of silence, comforts me. I work with very few elements – with one voice, two voices. I build with primitive materials – with the triad, with one specific tonality. The three notes of a triad are like bells and that is why I call it tintinnabulation.”  The homemade video accompanying Avo Part’s ‘Salve Regina’ mesmerized.  I found myself reflecting upon a childhood visit, a memory I had not experienced for decades.  I recalled as an elementary schoolboy visiting a farm.  The trip was with a good friend and his father, three of us.  I was always a bit uncomfortable with the father for he possessed a violent temper, several times during overnight stays beating the eldest son.  All three of his sons were familiar with his violent outbursts.  The father held me in esteem for he played high school football with my father, my father always praising him for his tremendous skills as a running back.  I never told my father how brutally he would beat his sons, especially the older one, often with me in the room pretending I was asleep.  There was another silent fact lingering throughout the encounters that is the suicide of his wife, the mother of his three sons.  The eldest son discovered her body coming home from school, shielding his brothers from entering the home, calling the police, handling everything.  I knew of the mother’s suicide, yet knew it was not to be discussed, not to be discussed with anyone.  Denny once told me the details and never again was it brought up.  During the lengthy daytrip to the farm, an adventure my good friend’s father talked excitedly about, I suffered a sense of gloom.  The farm appeared so muddy and run down, the barns and stables dilapidated and in need of maintenance and painting.  I wondered why the family did not take care of their farm.  The farm children were wild, one of the boys shooting at a cat with his pellet gun, all of them coarse and hard talking, daring me to take risky excursions, such as walking the top rail of a fence with pigs and mud on one side and horse manure on the other.  The horses appeared tired and old, worn out and beaten. I was informed there would be no riding of the horses because a cousin recently broke his leg riding one of them.  The relief during the day of just wanting to go home was the farmer’s wife, an obese woman, friendly and warm, giving with charm and bountiful food.  I could not imagine how the woman raised such abrasive and ornery children, although I did notice the father constantly drinking beer with my friend’s father.  In the homemade video, the black and white images, of the Estonian farm triggered the memory of the sad childhood adventure.  The little girl in the video, in the process of losing her innocence, awakening to surrounding ugliness, embracing her dead cat, warmed my heart.  Her falling asleep while holding her dead cat illuminated a spiritual poverty I am positive is necessary for an understanding of the love and mercy of God, the compassionate necessity of a Holy Mother watching over of us, praying for us.  The good friend, Denny, was killed shortly after high school, killed when an ATV he was driving overturned, throwing him headfirst into a tree.  His short life was a tragedy.  The oldest son turned out to be a successful entrepreneur, starting up his own plumbing company, while also jumping in during the early eighties with the startup of Subway sandwich shops.  He would eventually own a half dozen or so Subways.

A fireplace burning, Super Bowl viewing, my Sunday offs are becoming special.  We are working fifty-five to sixty hours a week so a day of rest proves essential.  The home has become a bit of a focus.  I have committed to staying, vowing an increased responsibility regarding maintenance.  The home possesses potential.  Where I use to feel no concern, due to the home owners lack of direction, I now see the home perfect for my goal of accumulating money.  Rent is close to nothing, and with the home owner taking residence in Virginia, he is rewarding when I take action.  It really is a decent situation, ripe with possibilities.  Today, I spent four hours cleaning, disinfecting, and organizing the basement.  I am confident I have eliminated all rodents.  Friday, I met with a new personal physician.  The visit went well, a game plan put into action.  She is approaching matters that we need a complete overview of my health.  Due to my post-fifty age, she wants a battery of test done.  Tomorrow morning, I will have blood work done, an emphasis placed upon thyroid testing.  In the coming weeks, we will schedule a colonoscopy, a prostrate screening, and an EKG.  She is a quiet, matter of fact, soft-spoken doctor, yet I think I was guided in a good direction.  She wants me to provide her with information on all the vitamins and supplements I am taking and an overview of my diet and exercise.  I have never had a doctor take this approach.  I have been taking enzymes at night with a glass of water, a practice holding over from my days of fasting.  My digestion is improved and there is a noticeable decrease in bloating and gas.  I am interested to experience this new relationship with a personal physician.  She asked me about my history with alcoholism and what happen over Christmas.  I appreciated her silent manner of listening; fully present, observing while not commenting.  When I assured her I was confident difficult days were behind me, she responded with a question: “Will you be honest and tell me if you are drinking?”  Her eye contact held me.  I responded, “I am an honest man.  Not to tell you would be dishonest.”  I also need to get to the optometrist, a new testing of my vision and prescription glasses.  I lost my last pair and it has been over a year since my last eye exam.  Securing my home and body, I move into a greater wrestling with peace as a solitary man.  Within the short work of St Albert the Great, the teacher of St Thomas Aquinas, I read words that cut to the bone, an idea others have touched upon in different ways.  St Francis de Sales stresses patience, another I cannot pinpoint emphases the inner and outer man—the inner man remaining detached from the actions of the outer man, others accentuating the need to accept imperfection—that to be overwhelmed by one’s tendency toward and conducting of sin is a grievous sign of pride.  Here are St Albert the Great’s written words: “So if the will is good and is obedient and united to God with pure understanding, he is not hurt even if the flesh and the senses and the outer man is moved to evil, and is slow to good,”  I think it is first necessary to understand my interpretation of the idea of good will and obedience to God with pure understanding mandates the establishment of interior presence, a prayer life devoutly exercised to the quieting of one’s self, listening in silence before the Eucharist, participating daily in the celebration of Mass.  It is not an intellectual achievement, rather a humbling and perseverance in prayer and partaking of the sacraments: communion and confession.  Once the inner man is fortified and fed, nothing else matters, nothing else can compare, as the Song of Songs poetically states:

With great delight
I sat in his shadow,
And his fruit was sweet to my taste.
He brought me to the banqueting house,
And his banner over me was love.

Sustain me with raisins,
Refresh me with apples;
For I am sick with love

St John of the Cross elaborates in a poem on into my embracing of St Albert the Great’s idea:

For when once the will
Is touched by God himself
It cannot find contentment
Except in the Divinity
But since his Beauty is open
To faith alone, the will
Tastes him in I-don’t-know-what
Which is so gladly found

Once the inner man has taken root into a deeper path, truth dominates his heart.  Even his own weakness will not usurp the grace.  Exterior activities and worldly matters will become wearisome.  The inner man will comprehend his calling is to cultivate within his prayer life.  With the support of grace, the outer man will not be able to thwart the command.  All efforts, even thorns and failures, lead to God.  Time and life demand moments away from Mass and prayer, the fortifying of the body and the establishment of a home necessary, the passing of idle time constructively—enjoying and contributing to life.  I have considered reigniting my bedside vigils with the Hospice, however proper discernment tells me no.  I am working too many hours.  My time away from work will be dedicated to my faith life, and for the winter a concentration upon my physical health—establishing a relationship with my personal physician, proper diet, and exercise.  My time is thoroughly filled.  Socially, I seek the space of being alone.  Companionship during Mass is enough for meaningful encounters.  Next Sunday, I was invited to a downtown luncheon with a group from St Paul’s Shrine.  The organizing woman lost her husband the Christmas season of 2015.  She puts together a mature pleasant crowd.  There is an elderly man who serves during Mass that seems to be gravitating toward me as I gravitate toward him.  He and his wife attended the last luncheon.  We were seated across from one another.  I am confident to say amidst what turned out to be a men’s gathering, five men situated together at one end of the table while the women gathered at the other end, we enjoyed splendid conversation in a wide-ranging exchange.  The strong man’s serious demeanor, while rarely speaking, plus ever present faith comforts, provides proper companionship.  The luncheon, appearing as providence, provides enough socializing to satisfy my need for the week.  St Dominic’s early morning Saturday Mass and Holy Hour has also become an anticipated endeavor, a highlight to my week.  The powerful Holy Hour is quite small, under five people participating.  The woman who organizes the readings, conducting most of them, is a beautiful authentic woman radiating holiness, quiet and receding from others, while open and friendly, obviously psychologically sound.  Her presence endears, yet there is no call to seek friendship or familiarity—a hello and smile is comforting enough.  The Eucharist, meditations before the Presence, Rosary beads, a crucifix in hand, and silence is enough.

A free day from work, a pleasant day relaxing. The Master Cleanse is complete and I am back to eating solid food after thirteen days of fasting. For some reason, maybe getting old, this fast really wore me down, several times exhaustion completely overwhelmed me, three times during Mass. All said and done, I feel good, exercise now taking precedence. The elliptical machine—a clearance item from Sears, a fifteen-hundred-dollar floor model with slight cosmetic damage, was delivered last week. All total, costing me under six hundred dollars. During my stay at Highland Springs, Dr. Farivar spoke to me about a thyroid issue. He asked me if I felt tired and like crap quite a bit. I laughed and said, “Now that you mention it. I thought I was just getting old and out-of-shape”. I am not clear on details, understanding the closed-loop process of my thyroid may be a bit defective, too much of something being called for. He stressed there was nothing to worry about, although I should make an immediate appointment with my personal physician for greater attention. This Thursday, I will meet for the first time a physician I was referred to, a woman from the country of Georgia. I recall once researching the cave monastery of Vardzia in Georgia. If all goes well, she will become my personal physician. Today, I left St Paul Shrine immediately after Mass. A full itinerary planned, I wanted to start my day, heading for the west side of Cleveland. Social activity at the Shrine was to be avoided, although I did make plans with Father Roger for a one-on-one session this coming week. We have not spent personal time together for months. I look forward to the conversation. I am finding peace in a solitary life, although coalescing with a deeper comfort in an expanded prayer life is the realization of anger entrenched within my soul. I recall words from one of my poems, something about “I can feel the wrath of my father breathing through the blood in my eyes”. With no bitterness, embracing love and compassion, I am positive the angry spirit is one passed on by my father. There were things that happen to him as a child that created intense hurt and thus his response of anger. Anger is difficult to get rid of once it takes hold, an obstinate wound festering. Frustration and explosions of temper were my father’s way. Yet within that stubbornness was a determination to be an outstanding father and dedicated husband, a man committed to his family, taking his wife and children to Mass every Sunday. My father was a good man, yet his legacy of anger I am positive I inherited. I accept it, while trying to grow beyond it, allowing it to exercise itself until it has tired itself out. It is a process, and I humbled when experiencing grace tending to the severity. My plans for the day were centered upon an exploration of the Lakewood library. My card expired several months ago, calling for a personal visit to renew it. The library is a favorite due to their expansive music and film collection. I am enamored with the Russian filmmaker Andrei Tarkovsky, discovering the Lakewood library has a handful of his DVDs. Wonderfully, his first film ‘The Steamroller and the Violin’, a children’s movie some relate to the French ‘Red Balloon’—a huge influence on my childhood, was one of the films. I am pleased Tarkovsky is revealed to me at this time. I am intrigued how God keeps in reserve encounters, saving someone like Tarkovsky for my elder years. It is soul comforting to find an artist who broadens my interest in life. I have also taken to listening to poetry while driving, exploring the words of Emily Dickinson. Her life was truly interesting, living with her parents all her life in a conservative Puritan Christian home and community. Her and her sister rarely left their childhood home, socially encountering few, while all the time she grew immensely as a poet. I will be posting some of her poems in the near future, at this time absorbing. I will post this photo of her as I find her appearance intriguing, a simple soul who seemingly remained in a state of innocence, while also managing to mature spiritually.

Drawing away from others, I find the solitary life appealing, focusing more and more acutely upon a life in Vermont. A concentration upon a life of prayer and service to the Carthusians aligns with my life’s experience, a settling into contemplation. At my age, I am consoled with the idea of remaining a layperson, committing myself wholeheartedly to obedience to the community, while not swearing vows. I have been through too much to identify myself as a religious. It is more appropriate to live a life of a religious, while not calling myself a religious. Concluding my daytrip to the west side was the Benediction service with the Poor Clares Colettines on Rocky River Rd, a truly splendid prayerful practice I have not exercised in months. It was the start of a Novena to St Colette.

This past week has been a concentration upon films, Russian films dominating.  ‘The Island’, ‘The Dry Valley’ and ‘The Priest’, along with clips and a documentary on Andrei Tarkovsky, comprising the Russian viewing.  The ‘Dry Valley’ proved a sentimental favorite, sorrowful and interesting with insight into pre-communist class struggles.  Majestically filmed, the story of the toils of an orphan peasant woman produces a heartwarming heroine, potentially a mystic, who strives beyond her shortcomings, eventually becoming even a source of hope for the desperate and delusional noble woman she serves.  Tonight, a movie at the theater ends my day free from work.  I watched Martin Scorsese’s film ‘Silence’, a story—historical fiction, of Jesuit missionaries meeting extreme futility in 17^th century Japan.  The film resonates with profound faith.  Thought provoking, ‘Silence’ firmly grasps the mystery of God and the complexities of converting exotic cultures.  Martyrdom clearly pronounces the deepest call to faith, putting to shame the struggles I endure.  The film powerfully offers the horrific reality of surrendering one’s life for the sake of Christ.  Yet surprisingly another sacrifice of love announces itself relevant.  It is one I possess no clear understanding of, yet it provides a deepening of faith, a greater dependence upon God, a drawing away from declarative statements or judgement, a broadening of the task of surrender.  Two of the priest capitulate their vows becoming apostate priest, living out their lives in Japanese fashion.  The depth and mystery of their choice is the intrigue that lingers.  Reporting upon my personal life, I am considering a move.  An opportunity presented itself in Bratenahl that will be investigated.  Conditions at the current residence became absurd when a friend installed a furnace.  The details have become so muddied and chaotic, I am convinced it is proper to advance.  Thy Will be done!  I felt extremely ill during Mass at St Paul Shrine today, exhaustion and a headache piercing my thoughts.  I am positive the Master Cleanse played a large role.  It is day six of the fast.  During previous fasts, I have experienced similar unfortunate conditions.  I had to return immediately home to receive nourishment, followed by a collapse into a two hour nap.  Waking, I headed straight for Sacred Heart and a Holy Hour before the Blessed Sacrament.  The overwhelming physical condition was alleviated.

The Master Cleanse reduces appropriately, stripping my routine of eating, eliminating the entertainment of food.  The clarity and seriousness it brings always impresses.  Fasting proves efficient in strengthening my prayer life.  Shedding is the process advancing into ordinary time.  An emptiness pervades that is welcomed.  Whereas the knee-jerk advice would be not to isolate, I discern a call to isolate.  I scheduled a session with Dr. Nitcha out of obligation to Highland Springs, while remaining convinced it is unnecessary.  My confidence is proper.  My reading has resumed, storytelling central to the interior gathering within exterior and interior removal.  I watched a Russian movie entitled ‘The Island’, the absorbing story of a bizarre orthodox monk who becomes recognized as a holy man, a babbling man able to pierce souls and heal.  The movie opens with an introduction to his deplorable past.  During World War II, working a coal barge, the man is framed unsympathetically, a coward when a German freighter overtakes his barge.  Boarding, German soldiers find the man hiding, buried beneath the coal.  The man begs for his life, crying, and surrendering pathetically.  The Germans demand to know where his captain is.  The man reveals his captain’s hiding place.  His captain is a proud brave man, scolding him for crying and begging for his life.  When the Germans point a pistol to execute the captain he silently stares them down, calmly lighting a cigarette.  The future holy man crawls upon the ground, weeping, pulling at the German’s legs begging for mercy.  The executing German soldier stares down the strong captain, before turning to his weak comrade, throwing him his pistol.  He tells the man who will be a monk to shoot your captain and we will let you live.  Crying and hysterical, he shoots his captain.  His captain falls into the sea.  The mystery begins within a life that becomes singularly and passionately devoted to God.  A strange email arrived last night.  A discalced Carmelite order in Arizona responded to a vocational inquiry I sent them in October.  Many things coalesce, I strive simply for peace.