How to View Art

Over at the Washington Post, Philip Kennicott has some advice on how to visit an art museum. Or so it seems. It’s good advice, to be sure, both practical and insightful: take time, seek silence, study up, engage memory, accept contradiction.  But one quickly realizes that the art museum here is not just an art museum. It’s also a metaphor for life. These are rules on how to live. That’s the thing about museums: they make us realize that we are in the presence of something great, but also far beyond our understanding, and that our time is limited. How we spend that time makes all the difference.

Attention DC-area readers!

Fans of Dappled Things in the Washington, DC area may like to check out this art exhibition — “Picturing Mary: Woman, Mother, Idea” — at the National Museum of Women in the Arts. It features pieces from the Vatican Museum and Uffizi Gallery, among other collections. From the NMWA website:

Divided into six thematic sections, the exhibition presents images of Mary as a daughter, cousin, and wife; the mother of an infant; a bereaved parent; the protagonist in a rich life story developed through the centuries; a link between heaven and earth; and an active participant in the lives of those who revere her.

Mark your calendars: the exhibit will open Dec. 5, 2014, and run through April 12, 2015. Whether you’re in the area or out, check out the “online exhibition exploring global traditions in Marian imagery, further contextualizing the artworks on view in the galleries” that will be offered on the museum’s website.

Monday Night Links

Deal Hudson talks with Dappled Things Editor in Chief Meredith McCann for Ave Maria radio in this insightful interview for his show Church and Culture.

The great books are for everyone! The Economist thinks that business leaders should ditch the traditional outdoors leadership courses and replace them with philosophy. Instead of “grappling with nature, business leaders [should] grapple with big ideas.”

David Anthony Harman, Dappled Things‘ art advisor, is also the man behind Native Maps, a company that makes hand-printed, research-driven neighborhood maps. They’ve now been named as finalists for the West Elm LOCAL Grant and are trolling for votes. If you want to support a DT team member and artist, do check them out and consider voting for them here (voting closes October 14).

Ever wondered what it’s like to “gird your loins for battle”? Wonder no more.

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

David Anthony Harman, hand-printing “native maps.”

Nominations Buzz!

ALERT!

Being far too humble to mention it herself, one of our very own associate editors here at Dappled Things was recently shortlisted for the HarperCollins Canada/UBC Best New Fiction Prize – congratulations, Natalie Morrill!

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UBC (or, the University of British Columbia) is one of Canada’s best universities (often ranked in the 30’s in terms of the world’s top) and has a highly prestigious MFA program from which Natalie graduated recentlyish. Anyways, HarperCollins apparently has a habit of culling the top thesis projects from their graduating students and throwing them in a pot from which they draw a handful (three this year) that are in the running for insta-publication and New-Fiction glory. Or something like that.

Anyways, Natalie’s manuscript, entitled At the Top of the Wall, Alight, made the cut – and they’ll be making the decision about the winner at the end of the month. You can find the press release for the shortlist here.

Disclaimer: they totally misquoted the press release. It should say “AT THE TOP OF THE WALL, ALIGHT, by Sudbury author Natalie Morrill, is a sweeping epic of the Second World War, following the life of a Viennese Jew, his family and the close friend who aided them despite his position in the Nazi party.”

Instead it reads: “At the Top of the Wall, Alight by Sudbury author Natalie Morrill follows the life of a Viennese Jew, who is a member of the Nazi party during the Second World War.”

Note to aspiring writers: rein in your press releases. Otherwise your main characters may surprisingly find themselves a Nazi.

Congrats, Natalie, and good luck!

 

Degrees of Cool Part II (or, post-Christian)

Quick recap: we were just talking (in Part I) about some recent works of art that deal with the complexities of faith in ways that were honest AND commercially/critically successful, which begs the question: what the heck? There can be a bit of an expectation among Christian artists to not be taken seriously because of untrendy beliefs in things like, you know, absolute truth and all that. I know I’ve met quite a few writers who expect major backlash to the themes in their work – a backlash that, though sometimes exaggerated, still sometimes seems very, very real.

Then, on a generous tangent, the topic turned to nature and how pop culture opinions about it changed over the past three hundred years: until industrialization, nature was widely seen as a force to wage war against rather than the soft, gentle, rejuvenating force of spiritual revival that the Romantics later painted it to be. What was the change? People, because of mass urbanization, stopped needing to fight nature to survive – and so could start appreciating it for what it had to offer their newly urban selves.

Same thing with cultural relationships: Native populations in North America were painted as savages until they were conquered – only afterwards could they be perceived by the White-European-descended culture as misunderstood recipients of undeserved tragedy.*

And looking back at war propaganda will provide lots of other examples of demonizing the folks who are seen as the threats de jour.

japan

Remember this guy?

An equally ridiculous example is the campy Catholic monarch who plays foil to England’s queen in Elizabeth: The Golden Age. In everything from the maliciously chanting monks to his reluctance to step fully from the shadows, King Philip is presented as little more than a goblin against which Cate Blanchett will say something awesome while basking in a meticulously engineered morning glow. I’m not even joking – you can pretty much all but hear him croaking “gollum, gollum” in the background. Not that Catholics are immune to this kind of simplifying criticism.

Because we're not.

Because we’re not.

When cultures and worldviews are in conflict it’s pretty easy for “debate” to amount to a round of “let’s see who can yell the loudest [with funny memes!],” and for a while in the mid-twentieth century there was some pretty hefty anti-Christian sentiment in the pop-culture and intellectual spheres. I don’t want to say there were no influential voices of faith (there were definitely the Waughs and O’Connors among plenty of others), but the fabric of cultural modernism was kinda set against Christianity in a couple of ways, for a few different reasons.

The modernists, to simplify, were finding the older Victorian and Georgian ways of life too stuffy, petty and ultimately restrictive for the full expression of the breadth and soul of human dignity, and so were searching for another way to live. Enter institutional experimentation (in lifestyle, literature, sexuality, whatevs). One of the problems of the time was that Christianity was sometimes overwhelmingly tied up in the public consciousness (of the English-speaking world, anyways) with notions of cleanliness and respectability rather than the earthy, dirty work of redemption; this “respectable” Christianity wasn’t much more than a hollow shell, a culture dressing up its manners and pretensions in a spiritual tuxedo in order to gain a bit of extra legitimacy. The moderns saw clearly enough to call out the bluff. But not far enough to realize Christianity was the baby thrown out with the bathwater.

A personal suspicion of mine is that each major cultural movement, nearing the end of its shelf-life, eventually ends up mass-producing parodies of their trademark rebellion – leading everyone else to quickly get annoyed with them and paving way for the Next Big Thing. Chesterton constantly complained about the inconsistent groups of would-be anarchists who didn’t seem to have either the conviction or courage of the bolder revolutionaries and anti-monarchists of the mid-to-late nineteenth century.

While real anarchism was always felt a genuine threat, Chesterton found the guys still hanging around in his day, threatening dynamite and all, to be impostors of the original, dangerous challenge to civilization (or something). But then-popular ideas of revolution were watered-down, mass-marketed and picked up by folks genuinely looking for something to fight for, and so were maybe more interested in the fight than in the cause behind it. Cue Chestertonian eye-rolling. But the ideological lovechildren of the pre-and-inter-war moderns would have to wait until the marches of the sixties to fully bloom in this sense.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m under the impression that there were a lot of core groups in the hippie/flower-child movements who were genuinely convicted about peace, love and sexual expression as a means of achieving freedom and dignity and such. But I’m also pretty sure there were lots of folks who jumped on the wagon cause it felt good, provided an easy feeling of cultural righteousness and got them on TV. Cue the quick decline of hippies from force-to-be-reckoned-with to day-time sitcom parodies.

“Whoa….you know…man?”

Cue postmodernism. After the moderns were done fighting/tearing down the old systems so the new, truer morality (not that they’d use the word) could take root, their children quickly realized no new order was forthcoming. Older systems of making sense of the world seemed outdated, refuted and irrelevant, making the search for meaning itself become suspect. Enter Pynchon, Delilo and Vonnegut with their constant (and often painfully humanizing) struggles against the seeming meaninglessness of the world at large. Or, less intensely, enter punk with its global-scale sense of scepticism (ie, flipping the bird) towards any kind of meaning in hand-me-down worldviews. Or, thirty to forty years after the heyday of literary postmodernism in the 70’s/80’s, enter the mass-produced bearers of uncritical irony, detachment and cultural skepticism: hipsterdom.**

hipster-mustache-brigade1

Postmoderns, meet your destiny.

So here we are at the tail end of a number of massive, twentieth-century cultural movements trying to break free from a stuffy, Victorian set of manners perceived to be “Christian” in nature. While the conflict was going on, Christians were seen as the epitome of uncool. But now, as modernism is declawed by postmodernism, which is in turn deflated by irony-for-irony’s-sake (not to mention our persistent habit of finding meaning in situations anyway), we might be far enough removed from the image of the “evil authoritarian Churchman(/marm)” that people may kinda-sorta be able to start appreciating the nuances/subtleties of the struggle of faith. It’s not as threatening, and therefore palatable.*****

One one hand, we can interpret this as confirmation that we are pretty much living in a Post-Christian world where the influence of Christendom is a distant memory of the past. We can lament the lack of Christian influence in public affairs, government, the arts and popular media. We can groan about having to compete for attention along with all the other paradigms in the intellectual marketplace.

Or we can acknowledge that there’s a great moment of opportunity here – less and less people are growing up with the knee-jerk anti-Christian tendencies common to Christian cultures (the most powerful anti-Catholic ballads in the Anglosphere, for example, come from Ireland), and so people across the board (Christian and otherwise) are able to look at each other from the cultural divide not as entrenched soldiers, but as mutual inhabitants of a strange world who, maybe, have something to teach each other.

Maybe Christian artists have the duty now of creating art not so much for use in a cultural battlefield as a way of being true to the Good, True and Beautiful as personally experienced in Christ. At the moment, the degree of being cool might well depend on the depth of our self-expression as artists of such. And that means being true to the doubt, loneliness and frustrations of faith as well as to the high-points – as “The Antenna,” “Noah” and “Modern Vampires of the City” (uuuggh) seem to imply, people may be more willing to listen if you speak just as much about the shit as the sunshine.

*

*Interestingly enough, though, in almost every single popular movie about Aboriginal populations (or their obvious stand-ins), they are almost always saved by a white man.

**When I decided on this title I totally promised myself that the essay would have nothing to do with hipsters***

***That was a total lie****

****After finishing, I found out someone already beat me to the punch and came to the same conclusions in a fantastic 2009 article called “The Death of the Hipster

*****There are two ways this can go, though – non-threatening doesn’t just have to be interpreted as “humbled,” but “compromised” too. There is no justification for substituting the visceral experience of faith for something watered down, just for the sake of being “non-threatening.” That was the problem with Victorian pseudo-religion – which was, in the first place, part of the reason why the moderns rebelled****** at all. Who really wants to set off the whole cycle again?

******And, really, wouldn’t you? It’s good to remember that things started with a whole heck of a lotta good intentions that, if not honoured, will come back to bite us all in the collective ass.

 

Josh Nadeau currently lives in Russia and, when not teaching or writing, may be found winter cycling, hitchhiking or engaged in general shenanigans. He hopes, when he’s older, to maintain his sense of awe.

Source, Summit, Sempiterna

“You never cease to gather a people to yourself, so that from the rising of the sun to its setting a pure sacrifice may be offered to your name.”

This line from Eucharistic Prayer III leveled me just the other day at mass–so much so that I (perhaps inappropriately) leaned over to my 6-year old son and whispered, “did you just hear that? Imagine . . . every moment of every day there’s a mass going on somewhere. How awesome is that!?” It happened to be his feast day (feast of the archangels). I couldn’t help but look in awe at the ceiling of our University chapel, painted with seraphim and cherubim, and ringed with the communion of saints. The eternal praise of God on their lips. It stunned me to think that this liturgy at once stops, reverses, and accelerates time in its very performance. The moment of elevation makes present the Lord’s infant body raised by Mary from the manger for the adoring shepherds’ feasting eyes, the Lord’s paschal body raised by his own hands at the last supper, the Lord’s battered body raised by the Romans on the cross, the Lord’s lifeless body raised by the power of the Spirit from the tomb, the Lord’s blessed body raised to heaven 40 days later, the Lord’s mystical body the Church raised from the blood of the martyrs and raised from the graves on the last day. The strange realization hit me that, my wife, children, mother-in-law, and all the others cobbled together at this mystery and in this space praise the Trinity with all other faithful on earth now just as truly as we do with John who worshiped through the revelation given on Patmos, or even with the prophet Isaiah, who heard the sanctus sanctus sanctus with his own ears and tasted the burning, cleansing presence of the Lord God of Hosts on his lips! Yes, this moment, this host elevated unites me to all worship in spirit and truth that has come before, but even stranger is the thought that I am somehow present to all the masses yet to come.

In pondering how this might be so, a short story by Evelyn Waugh flashed into my mind. Waugh’s “Out of Depth” masterfully illustrates the constancy yet transcendence of the liturgy. The liturgy as sticking-point is increasingly necessary amidst a throwaway culture, facebook feeds a speedreader can’t keep up with, memes that die in a day, and videos that go viral and are forgotten in five minutes (#unmemorable). Waugh tells the tale of Rip, a wealthy, well-connected, and shallow Englishman who finds himself, drunk, dazed, and (at the hands of a magician) deported from his own age and into the London of 500 years to come. A mental haze hovers over Rip as he wanders through the formerly familiar alien landscape. Taken prisoner by the white savages, Rip attempts to wake himself from what he believes is a dream. Communication with the natives of this new “Lunnon” proves a near impossibility, despite the linguistic similarities. The African “bosses,” who come and take Rip from the village, bring him to a learned man, whose thick accent baffles the attempt to communicate to Rip by reading Shakespeare. This moment strikes particularly strong chord. The plain language of English does not transcend time; even the seemingly timeless classic of Shakespeare seems of little use to bridge the intellectual, emotional, psychic gap for Rip. Something else, however, will do just that. Rather than paraphrase the moment of insight, let me allow Waugh to speak for himself:

         “And then later–how much later he could not tell–something that was new and yet ageless. The word “Mission” painted on a board; a black man dressed as a Dominican friar . . . and a growing clearness. Rip knew that out of strangeness, there had come into being something familiar; a shape in chaos. Something was being done that Rip knew; something that twenty-five centuries had not altered; of his own childhood which survived the age of the world. In a log-build church at the coast town he was squatting among a native congregation; some of them in cast-off uniforms; the women had shapeless, convent-sewn frocks; all round him dishevelled white men were staring ahead with vague, uncomprehending eyes, to the end of the room where two candles burned. The priest turned towards them his bland, black face.

‘Ite, missa est.’ “

In Waugh’s imagination, even 500 years from now, when African Dominicans will be re-evangelizing the savage British Isles, the one immutable rock that weathers any storm, the one ever-glowing beacon that cuts through the haze of confusion and the vanity of time is the Lord’s sacrifice made once for all–the source, the summit, the sempiterna, the Eucharist.

The Apocalypse According to Doctor Who

Dr Who

The Doctor Who Christmas Special was recently made available via online streaming to those of us who do not have access to the BBC on our televisions. I’ve been thinking about it for a month now and cannot stop.  The episode, entitled “The Time of the Doctor” marks the transition from Matt Smith’s Doctor to Peter Capaldi’s Doctor.

The goodbye scene is… well, let’s just say that because I already knew it was coming I was able to adequately prepare my emotions:

I may have cried a little

 

Oh my, when the bowtie hits the floor…

Doctor Who has a densely packed mythology that underlies the events leading up to the regeneration (the Doctor occasionally regenerates and is subsequently played by a new actor. This is the secret to keeping a show going for decade after decade after decade…). It would be well nigh impossible to unpack all of the background, but there are abundant theological themes throughout for us to muse upon. I have always thought that we ought to “read” Doctor Who in the same way we might read Tolkien’s Lord of the Rings. This is to say, not as a straightforward retelling of another story with silly characters and magic but rather as a fairy tale that is implicitly Catholic-shaped simply because it assumes the presence of a greater reality of beauty and goodness. Now, I have no idea if the writers of Doctor Who are even the tiniest bit religious, but they certainly have created a world in which virtues and destiny and good and evil have meaning. Their stories are highly mythopoetic and dense with symbol.

Edith Stein writes in Science of the Cross,

“every genuine work of art is a symbol…that is, it comes from that infinite fullness of meaning into which every bit of human knowledge is projected to grasp something positive and speak of it. It does so in such a manner, in fact, that it mysteriously suggests the whole fullness of meaning , which for all human knowledge is inexhaustible. Understood this way, all genuine art is revelation and all artistic creation is sacred service.”

A world in which everything means something is a world that is highly charged with the Divine presence. Nothing is merely a true to life “adult” recounting of grim facts. No gritty, dour, post-modern drama, here. This is why science fiction in general and Doctor Who in specific are so wonderful; it hasn’t given up telling stories. The Doctor may or may not be a Christ figure (I think probably not), but his actions always have resounding significance. He is very old and very wise, a true hero, journeying through a noble world in which nature is shot through with grace. Our lives are lived with precisely the same significance. Each day is a heroic journey, and at our best we make of ourselves a gift for those we love. All of our actions have eternal significance.

The Christmas special finds the Doctor, appropriately enough, in a town called Christmas where snow is always on the ground and the truth is always told. All of the ancient enemies of the Doctor and his species the Time Lords have gathered here in response to a mysterious question beamed out to all time and space. It is a question: Tell us your name, doctor…who? The enquirers turn out to be the long lost Time Lords, speaking through a crack to another universe. To answer and speak his name, forbidden to all, unlocks the door to allow the Time Lords back to their rightful place in this universe, but for the new world to come on the one we have now must die. To answer doctor who? brings on apocalypse as The Silence, Daleks, Cyber Men, and Weeping Angels are all eager for a final battle to push back the new world and destroy the Time Lords forever. Under these circumstances, the Doctor is and must remain unknowable. The question remains unanswered.

These guys are super scary and violent. Really.

The Doctor has seen all of this before, this planet with the town called Christmas. He has journeyed here many years in the future and stood at the foot of his grave. This is where he dies for the last time. No more regenerations. It is predestined.

In such conditions, his only victory is to keep the villagers of Christmas safe. And this he does for hundreds of years, steadfastly refusing to say his name out loud but also steadfastly refusing to abandon these innocent people to the monsters at the edge of town, drawn in by the mysterious question like moths to a flame. The Doctor forestalls the apocalypse, but experiences a long, slow apocalypse of another sort. This one is personal, and he knows that it only ends with his own death. Is this a picture of a sacrificial Christ figure? A tragic hero? A simple, confused man unsure how to make a big decision? Perhaps all of these, but I would say that he is most clearly a saint. A sometimes flawed yet entirely virtuous martyr for the good of those he loves.

In the end, a miracle is granted. It is occasioned by life energy (or whatever the fancy, sci fi name of the sparkly blue stuff is) being sent through the crack from the other Time Lords. This is most certainly a graced moment, a pure gift from those who love him. Without it his regeneration will not take place and the last Time Lord will have fulfilled his predestined death, the way of all creatures. With renewed energy, though, instead of the final end there is a regeneration. The viewer never has it spelled out, but obviously the future that the Doctor had seen is not so set in stone. His grave will not be here after all.

However, this regeneration is not cheap grace. There is most certainly still a death. The transition from one face to another is not a mere change in appearance, a new face on the same essential personality. The old Doctor is gone. He dies and undergoes the transfiguration of the grave and new life.

“Goodbye, Raggedy Man,” bids a vision of his faithful friend. Indeed, goodbye. We are all breath on a mirror and we fade away so quickly. We have but a short time to become saints. In this life is much that is difficult and suffering and goodbyes. The heroic journey must always end in a death, and yet, grace is lingering, drifting along through a crack in the universe waiting for us to inhale.

 

On Prayer and Pilgrimage

David and Diana are VERY excited to go to Portugal!

David and Diana are VERY excited to go to Portugal!

In less than 10 days, I will be–God willing–boarding a TAP flight (woo hoo!) to Lisboa (that’s Lisbon in Portuguese!) on my birthday!

Talk about an awesomesauce birthday prezzie, huh?

I know. I’m overjoyed. Except, ok . . . I’m only overjoyed when I allow myself to stop thinking about the five bazillion things I have to do in anticipation of this trip, and for my job, and the blogs, and the pilgrimages, and all the projects I have going, and . . . oh, my head has been spinning for the past few weeks.

Ask my mom. I haven’t talked to her in about that long, and normally I talk to her pretty frequently. (Hi mom! I’ll call you later today!)

One thing I keep thinking about, though, as I prepare for this amazing adventure, is how I am going to keep from going absolutely crazy on my poor husband while we’re in the middle of it.

I know. You all think I’m nice. And I try to be. I do. But people who know me know that, sometimes, the Dragon Lady rears her ugly head (as my friend, Karissa, likes to call her). The name is apt. Dragon Lady is stressed and freaky and angry and yelly and loud and oh-my-gosh-I-need-to-get-away-from-her CA-RAY-ZEE. Even I am afraid of the Dragon Lady. It’s that bad.

emilia-clarke-khaleesi-fire.gif.pagespeed.ce.L2t2Zg74BuAnd do you want to know when the Dragon Lady comes out? The Dragon Lady comes out when my center is not focused. And what is it that knocks my center out of focus?

You got it: a lack of prayer.

I don’t believe in sun signs–although mom did have the book when we were younger, and we used to love to pour over it!–but I am a Libra. I always liked being a Libra. Libra = balance. Right? The scales are our symbol, after all! Once , I was at a party in NYC, and some person–totally forget who it was–asked me what my sun sign was. And when I told her, she (or was it a he?) said: “Oh, honey!” (can you hear the accent?) “You are all about balance. When your center is at peace, the world could be falling apart around you, but you will remain calm. And when your center is not at peace, the world can be at peace, but you will be a mess.” “So . . .” I asked, “what’s my center?” “Honey,” he/she said, “that’s for you to find out!”

As much as I would like my center to be dark chocolate with a hint of peanut butter . . . mmmmm, CHOCOLATE! . . . I knew what it was as soon as I’d asked. My center is God. And God is with me the more I pray. And when I pray, the world can be falling apart around me, and I will be at peace. And when I don’t pray, well . . . DRAGON LADY.

So, now that you know just a few more of my faults, what does this all mean for you? Let’s take it back to the top: This is a blog post on prayer and pilgrimage. And I am here to tell you that no matter where you go, whether it be the Holy Land or Portugal or wherever you go on this pilgrimage we call life, you have to incorporate prayer into your day.

“The fruit of Silence is prayer.

The fruit of Prayer is faith.

The fruit of Faith is love.

The fruit of Love is service.

The fruit of Service is peace.”

–Mother Teresa

“SILENCE?!” you might be thinking. “Where can I get SILENCE?!” And yeah, I totally get you. Where can we get some silence in this crazy world? There are TVs in elevators, at the gas pump, and the checkout stand. TVs in waiting rooms, even some churches who seem to have given up on trying. The radio blares, the chat shows never shut up, and we are never left in peace. The devil hates silence. He says so in Screwtape Letters.

“Music and silence — how I detest them both! . . . no square inch of infernal space and no moment of infernal time has been surrendered to either of those abominable forces, but all has been occupied by Noise — Noise, the grand dynamism, the audible expression of all that is exultant, ruthless, and virile … We will make the whole universe a noise in the end. We have already made great strides in that direction as regards the Earth. The melodies and silences of Heaven will be shouted down in the end. But I admit we are not yet loud enough, or anything like it. Research is in progress.”

–From Screwtape, the senior demon of The Screwtape Letters:

But whatever. I’m not one to just throw my hands up and let the devil win.

Statue of Lucifer being Cast into Hell in Madrid’s Parque del Retiro

I’m going to try, even if I have to try again and again, every five minutes after I forget and lapse into the craziness of the day. I’m going to try to bring some silence and prayer into my day on this trip, and into my workday as these days count down. So I thought I’d share how I am going to do that.

MORNING PRAYER

The best way to start your day is with Morning Prayer. Of course, morning prayer is often as skipped as is breakfast, but it is just as important! If you don’t eat breakfast, your metabolism gets off to a slow start. If you don’t start your day off with prayer, your day gets off to a too fast start. How do you make time for prayer? Get up 5 minutes earlier. (Cone on! It’s five minutes!) Ok, depending on how much time you want to give to God (because really, that is what it comes down to, right?), here are some prayers I like to pray in the morning.

The Morning Offering

I love a morning offering. It makes me feel . . . useful. Like everything I do that day, God will take and make something awesome out of it, like wine out of water. It also makes me hopeful, like, maybe, today, I will actually be a good girl and not get frustrated with everyone who steps in my way.  I’ve never found a morning offering I like 100%, and while I could just go and write my own, instead I pray two. Don’t ever call me an underachiever.

O Jesus, through the Immaculate Heart of Mary, I offer you all my prayers, works, joys, and sufferings of this day, for the intentions of your Sacred Heart, in union with the Holy Sacrifice of the Mass throughout the world, in thanksgiving for your favors and in reparation for my sins, for the intentions of all our friends and family, and for the intention of our Holy Father.

I adore you, my God, and I love you with all my heart. I thank you for having created me, made me a Christian, and kept me this night. I offer you my actions of this day: grant that they may all be according to your holy will and for your greater glory. Keep me from sin and all evil. May your grace be always with me and all my dear ones. –Amen”

Then, there’s the prayer that Mother Teresa always used to pray, and which I like very much. Every time I pray it, I get a little teary-eyed. I mean, think about it: God gave me everything I value. That’s pretty awesome.

Receive, O Lord, all my liberty. Take my memory, my understanding, and my whole will. Whatever I have, whatever I possess, You have given me. I yield it to be directed by Your will. Give me only your love and Your grace and I am rich enough, nor do I ask for more.”

As we near the month of November, our minds should turn to the Holy Souls in Purgatory. Does yours not? Then READ THIS BOOK. It changed the way I think and pray. This prayer is something I took from that book, and whenever someone new dies, I add them to my list.

O my God, deign to accept my every thought, word, and action as a loving petition to Thy mercy on behalf of the suffering souls in Purgatory, particularly: [state names here]

I unite to Thy sacred Passion the trials and contradictions of this day, which I purpose to bear with patience, in expiation for the sins and infidelities which retain Thy children in the purifying flames of Purgatory. Amen”

Again, that’s a great prayer to make you feel hopeful and useful. Like my sufferings here on earth might be helping the Holy Souls in Purgatory! I love the thought that, when I die, a whole bunch of them will be waiting for me, each saying, “You helped me when you did this!” Can you imagine?

This next prayer is one that forces me to stay humble, because it is one of those prayers that includes everything that I think I should be, but the traits which I am fairly certain I do not have. Every time I pray this, I think, “God, are you hearing me?” But then I think, well, I must be a little better than I was yesterday! Maybe by the time I die I’ll get it. Hopefully.

Teach me, my Lord, to be sweet and gentle in all the events of my life, in disappointments, in the thoughtlessness of others, in the insincerity of those I trusted, in the unfaithfulness of those on whom I relied. Let me forget myself so that I may enjoy the happiness of others. Let me always hide my little pains and heartaches so that I may be the only one to suffer from them. Teach me to profit by the suffering that comes across my path. Let me so use it that it may mellow me, not harden or embitter me; that it may make me patient, not irritable; that it may make me broad in my forgiveness, not narrow or proud or overbearing. May no one be less good for having come within my influence; no one less pure, less true, less kind, less noble, for having been a fellow traveler with me on our journey towards eternal life. As I meet with one cross after another, let me whisper a word of love to You. May my life be lived in the supernatural, full of power for good, and strong in its purpose of sanctity. Amen.”

This last prayer, I believe I took from the Consecration to Jesus through Mary. I remember the first time I read it, I thought, “Wow! Why don’t I just ask Jesus to have everyone kick me when they pass by?!” LOL. I thought it was a bit harsh. But the more I pray it, the more I see how much I need to pray it.

Humility is not something we often work at in our attempts to become better people. Go to any self-help section of a bookstore, and I’ll bet dollars to donuts that you won’t find much on humility. And in this me me me world, it seems like all anyone ever cares about is ME FIRST. It almost forces you to become selfish, just to survive.

But I don’t want to be like that. Jesus said that there is value in humility, and while sometimes I don’t understand it or while it seems so extremely difficult to grasp, I know it must be important. If God could humble himself to become a baby, born in a dirty manger, to be poor, to deal with ridiculously dumb human beings who were so far below his level it isn’t even funny . . . then I can try to be humble, too. Because after all, what am I compared to Him? Nothing.

Crucifixion from Segovia’s Cathedral

Litany of Humility

O Jesus! meek and humble of heart, Hear me.
From the desire of being esteemed,
—Deliver me, Jesus.
From the desire of being loved…
From the desire of being extolled …
From the desire of being honored …
From the desire of being praised …
From the desire of being preferred to others…
From the desire of being consulted …
From the desire of being approved …
From the fear of being humiliated …
From the fear of being despised…
From the fear of suffering rebukes …
From the fear of being calumniated …
From the fear of being forgotten …
From the fear of being ridiculed …
From the fear of being wronged …
From the fear of being suspected …
That others may be loved more than I,
—Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.
That others may be esteemed more than I …
That, in the opinion of the world, others may increase and I may decrease …
That others may be chosen and I set aside …
That others may be praised and I unnoticed …
That others may be preferred to me in everything…
That others may become holier than I, provided that I may become as holy as I should…

And that’s morning prayer! Seriously, that will take you 5-10 minutes, depending on how fast you pray. (Don’t aim for Speedy Gonzalez here…)

MORNING READING

If you have a little more time, you might try adding some spiritual reading into your day. My favorite is the In Conversation with God series published by Scepter, the publishing arm of Opus Dei. Don’t let that scare you–I don’t know why it would. The books are full of wonderful quotes from the saints, from the Bible (of course), and from our early Church Fathers. Each day has a reading, with special days getting two, and they correspond to the Liturgical Calendar and daily readings at Mass.

I love them because they are chock full of St. Josemaria Escriva quotes, and anyone who knows me knows I love him. He always gives me a good Spanish kick in the spiritual pantalones, if you know what I mean. And I always need it, too. The cool thing about these daily readings is that they are divided into three parts, so if I was smart with my time, I’d read one part in the morning, one part at lunchtime, and one part before going to bed. But I usually just knock ‘em all out at once. The best thing about these books is that they’re on Kindle now, so I can have them wherever I am, which I love. Granted, there are a good many people in my parish who think I’m texting before Mass when I’m actually reading my spiritual reading, but whatever. Let them think what they want.

DURING THE DAY

Ok, so you get your day started off right with some prayer and spiritual reading. But what do you do with the rest of your day? Well, this is where it depends on how you’re spending your day.

If you’re on pilgrimage, one would hope that you could try to make it to daily Mass. That is, after all, the point of pilgrimage. But if you’re on a weird pilgrimage like I’m going to make, daily Mass might be hit or miss. Same thing in normal life. If you can make it to daily Mass at lunchtime, your day will get a nice shot of God which will reinvigorate you and carry you through for the rest of the day. If you can do this, you are truly blessed.

If you can’t make it to Mass, another thing you might try is praying the hours! One of the Daughters of St. Paul whom I follow on Twitter was recommending this recently at a talk . . . And I thought it was an awesome idea!

So, most days, I sit at my desk and don’t get up unless I really, really have to. Time flies by and I lose track of it. But my computer has this awesome little thing that allows me to make a voice announce the time on the hour every hour. Since reading Sister’s tweet, I thought I would try to say a little prayer every hour–even a Hail Mary or an Our Father. As we’re out and about, we can do the same. Everyone has some type of alarm on them–be it on their watch or their phone. Use an app to remind you to pray the Angelus at noon, or to pray the Divine Mercy Chaplet at 3 pm. (I use Alarmed.)

And, of course, it should go without saying that praying before every meal is another way to keep praying during the day. Give thanks for everything–that sip of water or soda. A piece of fruit. Tortilla chips. Whatever. Give thanks.

Praying the Liturgy of the Hours is something that shouldn’t be left out, either. To be honest, I always found using the books to be tremendously confusing, and never got the hang of it. It wasn’t until I discovered the Divine Office app that I really started enjoying the Liturgy of the Hours. These enterprising people create audio clips of every day’s prayers, so you can listen to them and pray along with them, which I think is great. I always found praying the Liturgy of the Hours alone to be weird. LOL. But that’s me. The Everyday Catholic’s Guide to the Liturgy of the Hours is a great book that will explain the prayers and help you figure out how to do them best for your lifestyle. Or use the app.

AT THE END OF THE DAY

the-infant-samuel-at-prayer.jpg!BlogThere are a few things I know that I should do at the end of every day, but which I rarely do simply because I am lazy and am still trying to be a better Christian. One of them is a the daily examination of conscience. St. Ignatius of Loyola talks about this in his Spiritual Exercises, and, of course, examining how good or bad I’ve been during the day is never a bad thing to do. I’m just usually too lazy or tired to do it. I need to make a better effort to try. Father John Bartunek provides some really awesome help in these two blog posts that explains how and why we should conduct daily examinations of conscience, so I recommend this to you.

At the end of my day, I like to pray the Rosary. Not when it’s too late, or I’ll fall asleep in the middle of it, like St. Therese used to do. It always brings me closer to God and His Blessed Mother, and it reminds me that, even though he was God’s Son, Jesus didn’t have it easy, either. He and His mother suffered a lot during their time on earth, and it gives me hope and makes me feel less lonely in my own suffering. They know what it’s like to be lonely or frustrated or angry or all of those human emotions we have. Turning to them at the end of the day and throwing roses at the Blessed Mother’s feet is never a bad idea. If you’re not big on the Rosary, I recommend you check out The Secret of the Rosary, especially as we enter the month of October, dedicated to Our Lady of the Rosary because of her victory at the Battle of Lepanto on October 7th (the day before my birthday!).

So that’s how I will be attempting to spend my days in Portugal–praying for you all and for the success of The Faithful Traveler in Portugal. It’s going to be tough, even though I’m sure it will be amazing. Please pray for us out there, and know that we will be bringing you all with us as we pray to Our Blessed Mother on Fatima on October 13th, and as we encounter the amazing people of Portugal.

Adeus! (Goodbye in Portuguese!)

Oh! By the way, I will be blogging my entire trip over at my new blog at Patheos, so please be sure to follow me over there for nightly recaps on the day’s events. I’ll also be posting pics to Facebook and Instagram and will try to be funny on Twitter. I promise you and my husband to leave the Dragon Lady at home!

Monday Night Links

Pia de Solenni brings charity to a hot button issue, expressing her appreciation for Cardinal Kasper–with whom she disagrees about the issue of reception of communion for divorced and remarried Catholics–in her very thoughtful review of Remaining in the Truth of Christ: Marriage and Communion in the Catholic Church. Meanwhile, the Ancients invade your iPad as the Loeb Classical Library goes digital, and James Matthew Wilson reviews Cave Art at the Weekly Standard, Timothy Steele’s new book of poetry that includes pieces first published in Dappled Things. Think you’d like to get your own books published? Read this first. And celebrate the return of a young man who perseveres in pursuing the writing life against all the best advice in this wonderful manifesto for Marc Barnes’s re-inaugurated Bad Catholic blog.

On motherhood, art, and dying to self.

Of all the advice people love to give to young mothers, some of the most prolific is on how to be patient with small children, certainly a necessary skill. Yet the state of mind required for happiness at home with small children isn’t really patience, as such. It’s a kind of flow that transcends patience: an attentiveness to and delight in minutiae that others don’t seem to notice. It’s something like the state of mind required for watching the film Into Great Silence—or for living in a monastery. It is a Theresian “little way” of detachment from goals of one’s own, as the time when those goals might have been achieved slips irretrievably away. It is the patience of the surfer of the waves of boredom, as described by David Foster Wallace:

“Bliss—a second-by-second joy and gratitude at the gift of being alive, conscious—lies on the other side of crushing, crushing boredom. Pay close attention to the most tedious thing you can find (Tax Returns, Televised Golf) and, in waves, a boredom like you’ve never known will wash over you and just about kill you. Ride these out and it’s like stepping from black and white into color. Like water after days in the desert. Instant bliss in every atom.”[1]

Thank God that the bliss lies on the other side, as experience has shown me that it does. And thank God this sort of endurance test is also required of writers, or I would never have encountered it before embarking on motherhood. Women with little or no such previous experience must also fight their way through boredom’s waves, and I think from hearing some of their stories that an unprepared person tends to fare worse when first plunked down inside five rooms with a tiny being whose need-based behaviors can’t be disciplined, scheduled, or predicted, and who depends entirely on her body for nourishment. Even for the experienced, the brain goes begging. When not well supplied with its own nourishment, it can wander into some dark and dry deserts.

While I am gone from what most people consider high-pressure environments, still the habit of internalized pressure is not gone from me. (“Wherever you go, there you are,” right?) I’m impatient for success, in heaven and on earth, and I do not know whether success will come. Not knowing scares me, but more and more the experience of meeting the daily tasks and accepting the daily gifts is peeling away this fear, baring me ribbon by ribbon to the air like the potato I am. It is stripping off not the desire for excellence, but the desire for validation.

I will know this deceitful desire is gone when I can accept my limitations in the way described by Caryll Houselander, when I can

stop striving to reach a goal that means becoming something the world admires, but which is not really worthwhile, [and] instead . . . realize the things that really do contribute to our happiness. . . . the things that satisfy our deeper instincts: to be at home, to make things with our hands, to have time to see and wonder at the beauty of the earth, to love and to be loved. . . . To work for real human happiness implies unworldliness, the kind of unworldliness that is usually a characteristic of artists, who—in spite of glaring faults—prefer to be poor, so that they may be able to make things of real beauty as they conceive it, rather than to suit themselves to the tastes and standards of the world.[2]

As a mother and an artist, I am grateful for the space and peace to pursue these deeper instincts daily. One minute motherhood will seem like the limiting condition on art; the next it will appear as the only hope for preserving the bliss on the flip side of boredom that is art’s necessary prerequisite. I would never have had the opportunity to rediscover this characteristic bliss of childhood and preserve it into adulthood, if not for my creaturehood as a woman and my re-creation as a mother. At times this cycle is breaking me completely, but only in order to rebuild me. There is reason to be grateful for this.