six days at our lady

My journal entries from my recent six-day stay at Our Lady of Guadalupe, a Trappist monastery near Lafayette, Oregon, on retreat. My previous stay a year ago sparked my interest in exploring Christian monasticism and contemplative spirituality, which I've since incorporated into my own spiritual practices. I've always been drawn towards more spiritual, contemplative ways of life; and I'd been meaning to come back for some time. After a difficult month of trying to cope with my mom's death, I decided that some time in meditation and solitude might be a good thing, and they just happened to have an open space. For reference, the daily schedule was as follows:

Monday – Saturday

4:15 a.m. Vigils - Angelus
4:50 a.m. - 5:15 a.m. Mediation in Bethany House
6:00 a.m. - 6:25 a.m. Mediation in Bethany House
6:30 a.m. Lauds – Community Mass (followed by breakfast)
12:30 p.m. Day Hour – Angelus
12:50 p.m. Dinner
5:30 p.m. Vespers
6:00 p.m. - 6:25 p.m. Mediation in Bethany House
6:00 p.m. Supper (available until 6:45 p.m.)
7:30 p.m. Compline - Angelus

Sundays and Feast Days

4:15 a.m. Vigils - Angelus
6:45 a.m. - 7:10 a.m. Mediation in Bethany House
7:15 a.m. Lauds (followed by breakfast)
9:15 a.m. Community Mass
12:30 p.m. Day Hour – Angelus
12:50 p.m. Dinner
5:30 p.m. Vespers
6:00 p.m. - 6:25 p.m. Mediation in Bethany House
6:00 p.m. Supper (available until 6:45 p.m.)
7:30 p.m. Compline - Angelus


8/10/15

I awoke to a bright, blue sky, much like on the day of my first visit to Our Lady of Guadalupe; and started the day with Mass at Lady of the Lake after being dropped off in downtown Lake Oswego. The church was spacious and reminded somewhat of the chapel at Our Lady, mostly because of all the wood, I think. It's the feast day of St. Lawrence, who, the story goes, was put to death for angering a Roman prefect by promising to give him all the treasures of the church, except he didn't offer gold or silver, which he'd given all to the poor after Pope Sixtus was executed by the Emperor, but the poor supported by the church themselves, which he'd lined up in rows when the prefect came to collect his 'treasures'; and who tradition holds quipped on the pyre something to the effect of, "Turn me over, this side's done." A wise-ass until the end.

I spent the rest of the day reading at Rossman Park as I waited for Annie to get off work so that she could drive me to Our Lady, some guilty pleasure reading like Thanos Vol. 2: Infinity Abyss and Thanos Vol. 3: Marvel Universe: The End, as well as some more spiritual stuff. I was originally going to bring Kathleen Norris' The Cloister Walk, but I ended up taking Things Hidden: Scripture as Spirituality by Richard Rohr instead, which I got the day before at the parish book sale. It just seemed like the right book to take.

I arrived at the monastery at about 6pm, just in time for supper (just ate some fruit, a nectarine and some apricots, I think), and quickly settled in. This time, I was put in A-2, which has a nice view of the smaller of the two man-made ponds. I was also pleasantly surprised to see (and be staying with) the same man from my previous visit, Jeff, a professor at the University of Portland, as well as a lady named Carol Dempsey, who was one of Barbara's biblical studies professors for her master's program at U of P. After supper, I sat by the pond for a while, thinking about why I was there and what I wanted to get out of my visit: to see Br. Chris and the other monks again; freedom from distractions to think and heal; inspiration; a reinvigoration of my spiritual practice and a deeper connection with the 'God of the mystics,' as Karen Armstrong calls it; just to name a few.

At 7:15pm, I went into the chapel for Compline. My heart instantly gladdened when I saw the monks (and a couple new novices) begin to wander in; and as soon as they began to sing, I was immediately transported back to my first day here, filled with the same feelings of peace and happiness I experienced then. It felt good to be back; and familiar, too, almost like I'd never left. Now I'm retiring to my room to try and sleep despite the excitement and coffee I foolishly drank during supper. Maybe the sound of the water from my window will help lull me to sleep.


8/11/15

Awoke at 3:50am for Vigils, which welcomes the coming dawn of a new day. Physically tired from a restless night's sleep yet mentally refreshed just by the fact of being here, I sat in the dark, waiting for the monks to begin the first office of the day. Likely because it was her feast day, there was a reading from the same biography of St. Francis that I'm reading about St. Clare, one of Francis of Assisi's most devoted disciples and, at the same time, one of his greatest sources of comfort and inspiration. As I sat there, listening to the Psalms being sung, I thought about my inner conflict between the pull of monasticism and the joys of the life I'm currently living. Over the last year, the pull of monastic life hasn't diminished, nor has it increased, leaving me feeling just as torn as ever. It made me wonder if I'll ever feel strongly enough to make a decision one way or the other.

I joined some of the monks in meditation before Lauds, just as the sun began to peak through the trees that surround the monastery. But my mind wasn't at peace, and it wandered incessantly. At 6:25am, the bells were rung calling everyone to Lauds. I hurried to the chapel as fast as I could with a foot that had fallen asleep, and I ran into Br. Chris on the way in. He asked if I'd be free Wednesday at 11am to meet and talk, and I said yes. Lauds segued into Mass, and my first time joining in communion at Our Lady was on the feast day of St. Clare of Assisi, who herself is an inspiration to me. Like St. Francis, her life was lived in love of poverty (i.e., renunciation). By joyfully giving up all that she had in the world, she made room in her heart for all of creation, sharing Francis of Assisi's unpretentious humility, boundless compassion, and love of all sentient beings–things I deeply admire about her. She was also the first woman to write a rule for her own religious community.

It's hard to describe how I felt then, and as I often do during communion. I'd be equally pressed to explain precisely what it means to me. The closest I can come is to say that, to me, communion is an important and relevant symbol. It connects me to something greater than myself, as well as to the people around me, a sacrament of relationship, if you will. On a good day, it focuses my very being, like a form of meditation; and for a short moment, I'm wholly present to myself while also conscious of my intimate connection with others (or seeing that I'm "a little strand in a much larger tapestry," as Richard Rohr would say). Above all, it's an emotive and unifying experience, a mandala of a deeper reality.

After Mass, I ate breakfast in silence with the other retreatants (granola cereal), and then went for a leisurely stroll. As I was walking past the smaller of the two ponds, I noticed some movement out of the corner of my eye and was surprised to see a large hawk, which had just landed near its bank. I stood and watched as it cautiously stepped into the water, possibly for a drink or a bite to eat, and cursed myself for not having my camera on me. It was an amazing sight, and I couldn't help but think of St. Clare and her love of animals. Shortly afterwards, it disappeared back into the trees, and I spent the majority of the rest of the morning reading by the pond and contemplating life.

I took a short nap before Day Hour, and then ate dinner with the other retreatants, again in silence (veggie pizza, zucchini, beans, blueberries, and apricots). When I was finished eating, I decided to hike up to the shire of Our Lady. The last time I tried, I got pretty lost trying to follow the map; but this time, I decided to trust my intuition. And as I was winded my way down whatever trail I found myself, I started asking myself questions like, "What is God? Where is God? How can I connect with God?” And like some kind of Socratic dialogue, I'd answer myself, "They say 'God is love' (1 John 4:8); that God is 'over all and through all and in all' (Eph 4:6); and that the whole of the law of God is fulfilled in keeping one commandment: 'Love your neighbor as yourself' (Gal 5:14). If God is love, then it's through love that God can be known—like Knitter says in Without Buddha I Could not be a Christian, 'we exist through relationships of knowing and loving and giving because that's how God exists' (18). God is here, now, always present in the present."

Nearer to the top, I started thinking about faith and trust. What does it mean to trust, to have faith in God? And I thought:

In a way, to trust in God is to trust in ourselves. God isn't something separate from us. That's why the mystics always point us inside. God is within. God is like a compass in our hearts, reflecting what we call our intuition, our conscience (I'm thinking here especially of Jer 31:33-34). When we trust in ourselves, we also trust in God; when we doubt ourselves, we also doubt God. Like Adam and Eve after eating from the proverbial tree of knowledge, going from simplicity of being to the complexity of self-consciousness, we tend to overthink things and become alienated, unreceptive; we see ourselves as independent, separate 'selves' divorced from InterBeing. We become lost within ourselves, disconnected; and when that happens, we become afraid. And when we're guided by fear, we're no longer capable of trusting in anything. So, we must learn to find ourselves again by returning to simplicity, to regain our trust in ourselves and others, like Jesus in the desert.

Perhaps that's also part of what Jesus meant in today's reading when, after being asked who is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven, he called over a child and said:

Amen, I say to you, unless you turn and become like children, you will not enter the kingdom of heaven. Whoever humbles himself like this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven. And whoever receives one child such as this in my name receives me. (Mt 18:1-5)

Perhaps he picked the example of a child because children are, more often than not, free from malice and cynicism, with a receptive mind hungry for knowledge and willing to give their trust more freely. The more we doubt ourselves and over-analyze things, the more we stumble and lose faith in ourselves (perpetual second-guessing). So, to become like a child, one must return to a state of trusting in one's self and that which guides us.'

It seemed insightful at the time, anyway.

Not long after, I made it to the shrine and admired the nice view. When I reached the shrine, however, my phone was able to get a signal and I received a text message from Annie saying that her father had suffered a heart attack. I tried to call her, but there was no answer, so I sat and prayed at the shrine for her dad and my mom, who's never far from my thoughts. It was the only thing I could think to do. I eventually got through, though, and we talked for a few minutes. Her mom said that it happened around 4am, that they put a stent in and think he may get out of ICU tomorrow, although he'll probably have to stay a couple more days after that. She sounded worried, and understandably so. I told her that I'd hike up to the shrine each day to check my phone and give her a call, and that if she needed me right away, she could call the guest house or come get me if need be.

After that, the rest of the day was kind of a blur. I went to Vespers (where I finally figured out how to follow along with the monks using the books kept in the back of the church) and meditation after that, then ate supper with everyone (veggie pizza, zucchini, beans, blueberries, apricots, and ice cream). One thing I recall during supper was Carol talking about an article she'd written that's going to be published soon on the importance of wilderness in the Bible and how that connects to things today like the role forests can play in combating climate change, intermingling spirituality with ecology. It made me think of the importance of wilderness in the Pali Canon, as well as to the Thai Forest tradition, and how much of Thailand has now been deforested, with many of the few remaining forested areas left being on monastery property.

Compline was an oasis from my sadness and anxiety, though. The hymns and rhythms of Compline always seem to help to ease my troubled mind. Hopefully I'll sleep better tonight.


8/12/15

Unfortunately, I didn't sleep very well again. Maybe it's the bed. Or the heat. Or maybe it's because I had too much on my mind last night. Whatever the case, it felt like I'd just fallen asleep when my alarm went off for Vigils. After Vigils, I sat in meditation with only one other monk. It was kind of nice being the only two people there. At 6:00am, I sat again with everyone before Lauds and Mass. Today's gospel reading was from Matthew, where Jesus teaches what are called 'the beatitudes' at the beginning of the Sermon on the Mount:

Blessed are the poor in spirit,
for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are they who mourn,
for they will be comforted.
Blessed are the meek,
for they will inherit the land.
Blessed are they who hunger and thirst
for righteousness,
for they will be satisfied.
Blessed are the merciful,
for they will be shown mercy.
Blessed are the clean of heart,
for they will see God.
Blessed are the peacemakers,
for they will be called children of God.
Blessed are they who are persecuted for
the sake of righteousness,
for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
Blessed are you when they insult you and persecute you and utter every kind of evil against you [falsely] because of me. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward will be great in heaven. Thus they persecuted the prophets who were before you. (Mt 5:1-12)

I really like the Sermon on the Mount, and see it as the culmination of a dialectical, spiritual/moral evolution I think can be seen throughout the Bible, a book that's described by Rene Girard via Richard Rohr as "a text of travail" that "edges forward and sometimes backward" (11). During Jesus' time, for example, many were waiting for a warrior king in the line of David who'd lead them out of oppression through strength and might and military genius. But here we have the much-anticipated 'messiah' preaching the importance of right action and harmlessness (both integral parts of the Buddha's noble eightfold path), especially forgiveness and righteous (skillful) deeds, rather than shouting battle cries. And within these teachings, I see a call to contemplation ("Blessed are the clean of heart, for they will see God"), as well as a call to be kind, compassionate, and trustworthy people.

I left the chapel feeling uplifted, the peaceful atmosphere of the monastery like a seed taking root in my heart and mind. I ate breakfast (granola cereal), wrote a bit, and then read until it was time to meet with Br. Chris. We met in front of the chapel, and then sat by the pond to talk. He asked about how I was doing and how my retreat was going. I told him about my mom and how her death has been hard for me to deal with. He told me that his mom also passed away recently, at the beginning of July. We talked a lot about our families for a while, both the good and the bad, and then moved on to other things, like how my experience with Catholicism was going and if I'd had any trouble mixing that with Buddhism. I told him no, that I've found a lot of commonalities, mentioning Without the Buddha I Could not be a Christian, which didn't seem to surprise him; but he did seem surprised when I said that I still consider myself a Buddhist. I guess he hasn't met many 'double-belongers.'

He asked more about my stay, if it was helping with things, and wanted to know if I still thought about being a monk. I told him that the rhythm of the monastery and the solitude were both helpful so far and that I was enjoying my time here even though it was partially tragic circumstances that brought me. I also told him that I felt the same about being a monk as I did my last visit — still torn between wanting to live a monastic life and living in the world — and that I'd still like to participate in their month-long monastic life retreat one day, possibly sometime next year. I said, half-jokingly, that it's hard to know what direction in life you're being called to when everything seems to call to you.

We talked for at least an hour, until the bells for Day Hour interrupted us and we both headed to the chapel. Afterwards, I ate dinner, (grilled cheese, watermelon, some veggies, and lentil soup), and then hiked up to the shrine to check my phone. I didn't get a hold of Annie, but I got a text saying that she talked to her dad and that he was doing well and out of ICU, which is definitely a relief. I hiked back down to the monastery, tired but feeling good, partly because of the good news and the exercise, but also from talking to Br. Chris, I think. I freshened up for Vespers, which I enjoyed; although I had mixed feelings about parts of Psalm 136 (135 in their translation), which talks a lot about God smiting nations and kings for Israel because "his love endures forever." Unfortunately, the Psalms make up the majority of the offices, and many were written when the people of Israel were constantly at war with their neighbours, fighting for territory, and animal sacrifices were still a thing. In some ways, it's good to see this contrast between beautiful and benevolent verses and ones of violence and animosity, reminding us of how our beliefs can be twisted to justify any evil; but it's somewhat jarring when they're all being beautifully sung in such a peaceful setting. They just seem so out of place to me.

After Vespers, I sat in meditation and then ate supper (grilled cheese, veggies, lentil soup, and ice cream). I think I overdid it a bit, though, and felt gross during Compline. Gluttony definitely got the better of me this time. I really enjoyed singing along during Compline, though. It really is a pleasant way to end each night. Maybe I'll even get a decent night's sleep. Third time's a charm, right?


8/13/15

My alarm woke me from a fairly vivid yet innocuous dream. I slept well enough, but not nearly long enough. My eyes had trouble focusing on the words in the dim light during Vigils. Still, there isn't a better way to start the day. You enter a dark, spacious church well before dawn, when the world is as quiet and as peaceful as it gets, the only sounds coming from the nearby pond, and take a seat. Many of the monks are already there, sitting or standing, lost deep in thought or prayer (or maybe sleeping). You sit, collecting your thoughts. Then the office starts, with its particular set of prayers, antiphons, Psalms, and readings for the day, everything flowing like a gentle wave. It's serene, but also uplifting.

One of the readings for today was from a book by Thomas Merton on the necessity of solitude for a contemplative life. But he also writes that being alone simply because you like being alone isn't the point and won't lead to the kind of knowledge and love a contemplative life seeks to develop. And the way he speaks about the love of God and the commandment to love God with all your heart reminds me of both eros in the Symposium and Sariputta's simile of the elephant footprint in MN 28–each suggesting that, through contemplation and a form of selflessness, we may eventually apprehend a greater whole through its parts, whether it be God, the form of the good, or nibbana, the culmination of the eightfold path. (From the Buddhist POV, I think he's talking about right resolve and right concentration.) It's not about escaping; it's about deepening the connection. To quote the 4th century monk Evagrius, "He is a true monk who is separated from all and united to all."

After Vigils, which lasted a little longer than usual, I went to sit in meditation. I was the only one there this time, and I felt anxious. My mind was firmly in thinking and planning mode. I only sat for a short while due to that and the fact that there was another sitting less than an hour away, before Lauds. At 6am, I went back, and my mind was still busy coming up with really important things that I had to do or remember to write down. It was frustrating to say the least. The irony is that, everything I thought was so important that I couldn't put it aside for more than 25min, I completely forgot by the end of the sit, when the bells rang calling us to Lauds.

One of the few annoying yet funny things about this stay has been the poorly-timed sprinklers, which are always off when I enter the meditation hall for the 6am sit and always on by the time I leave, so that I get a baptism of sorts every morning on my way to Lauds. The monks have a special walkway from the chapel to the meditation hall, and I confess that I sometimes get mad that I can't use it, too.(lol)

Lauds always seems to go by quickly, even though it's about the same length as most of the other offices. Before I know it, all the monk-priests disappear to put on their vestments and then file out for the beginning of Mass. And I've also noticed that the more I immerse myself in the offices, the more I actively follow along, the less I remember about them afterwards, kind of like an experiential mandala that's lived in the moment and then wiped away from memory, inconstant yet still leaving an impression.

Mass itself is definitely the focal point of the liturgical day, and the one office where the monks truly interact with everyone else, where we all join in and participate together. I find that, when approaching it intellectually, it still doesn't make a lot of sense to me. But when I allow myself to become part of its living symbolism, I open myself up to the sense of community and unconditional love it's meant to foster and celebrate; and the act of eating and drinking the sacramental bread and wine becomes for me a way of both remembering and honouring Jesus as a spiritual teacher and the things he taught and a means of connecting to the cosmic ideal that the Eucharist embodies. As I wrote during my first visit, "it's a spiritual experience that speaks directly to our nature as social creatures," and it's a contemplative one, as well. As Richard Rohr puts it:

[Jesus] gave us something that he did not say we needed to "think about" or "agree upon," "look at" or even "worship," but he just said, "Do this!" It was an action, an audiovisual aid, a sacred ritual for a community, built on Jewish roots, that would summarize his whole lasting message for the world. (215)

For a long time, I couldn't appreciate that. But I find that it has meaning for me now, and I think I get what Jesus was pointing at.

After Mass, I had breakfast (granola cereal, piece of bread with peanut butter), and then attempted to write, but was so tired that I took a short nap. I had another rather vivid dream, with people from my previous dream showing up again. Dreams are strange things, and often windows into the thoughts and habits occupying our subconscious, I think. After I woke up, I sipped some coffee by the pond and thought for a while, but nothing worth noting. Then I joined everyone in the chapel for Day Hour, and ate dinner after that (kale, beans, potatoes and onions, and some kind of vegetable soup). I also grabbed an apple for the hike up to the shrine, where I found out that Annie's dad was released from the hospital today and seems to be doing ok (such good news!).

On my way back down, a line from Psalm 94 (Psalm 93 in their translation), which we chanted during Vigils, popped into my head: "Can he who made the ear, not ear? Can he who formed the eye, not see?" It kind of made sense to me in a weird way. I thought, "In a universe that gave shape to eyes and ears, couldn't it itself have its own set of eyes and ears?" And that reminded me of something I'd written back in May, exactly three months ago in fact (5/13/15):

I recently finished Karen Armstrong's A History of God (which I really enjoyed) and have started on Paul Knitter's Without Buddha I Could not be a Christian. On the way to work this morning, something Knitter wrote got my imagination going. On p. 17, he compares the Buddhist concept of inter-being and the non-duality of samsara and nirvana to Karl Rahner's description of "the supernatural existential," which Knitter summarizes as Rahner's claim that "our human condition is not just 'human' or purely natural because from the first moment of creation humanity is infused and animated by the grace of God's very presence. In other words, the 'Natural' is really the 'Supernatural!'"

As I was walking and reflecting on what that meant, it got me thinking of people like Isaac Newton, Spinoza, and the Faylasufs, who sought an understanding of God through the study of natural science, which in turn got me thinking about God and how modern scientific ideas about the world tend to have little room for a transcendent sort of consciousness (God?) that's "over all and through all and in all" (Eph 4:6).

Today, many scientists have a purely materialistic worldview, viewing all phenomena as being composed of matter, with consciousness being the result of material interactions. Consciousness, while not strictly material itself, is believed by many to be an emergent property of the brain and its various biochemical and physiological processes. Instead of an immaterial phenomenon, consciousness is seen as a network of sorts emerging from all these physical connections and interactions, and some recent studies do seem to support the idea that, as per one abstract, "awareness is associated with truly global changes in the brain's functional connectivity."

But what about Rahner's 'supernatural existential?' Or Knitter's idea that, "With the word 'God' we're trying to get at an activity that is going on everywhere rather than a Being that exists somewhere. God is much more an environment than a thing" (19-20)? I started thinking about the vastness of the universe, with its multitude of stars and galaxies and fundamental forces of nature, and found myself wondering if maybe the universe itself wasn't some kind of infinitely large, cosmic brain giving form to an infinitely reflective consciousness. Like the old hermetic saying "as above, so below," might the structure of the microcosm (human brain) be in accordance with the structure of the macrocosm (universe)?

Admittedly, it seems a little out-there; but after I got home and did a little googling, I was surprised to find that it may not be such a crazy idea after all. I stumbled onto one article from Live Science, for example, that opens with the line, "The universe may grow like a giant brain, according to a new computer simulation."

The article continues, "The results, published Nov.16 in the journal Nature's Scientific Reports, suggest that some undiscovered, fundamental laws may govern the growth of systems large and small, from the electrical firing between brain cells and growth of social networks to the expansion of galaxies," which brought to mind another line from the Emerald Tablet: "That which is below is like that which is above and that which is above is like that which is below to do the miracles of one only thing" (Isaac Newton trans.). Maybe we're made in God's image more than we realize.

I guess there's something about walking that really helps to jog my imagination.

I decided to read by the pond when I got back, and on the way, Satan came to greet me on the path in the form of a baby garter snake. He was quite adorable, and I chased him around a tree to get a quick pic. Reading Things Hidden, I came across two lines I rather liked: "You can only transform people to the degree that you have been transformed. You can only lead people as far as you yourself have gone" (44). It reminds me of what I think Paul Knitter is getting at when, quoting Thich Nhat Hanh, he says that "in order to make peace, you have to be peace."

The rest of the night was fairly routine, and seemed to go by rather fast–Vespers at 5:30pm, followed by meditation at 6pm (I found that watching the breath was easier if I focused near the bottom of my diaphragm this time), and then supper (some beans and soup from earlier, a piece of bread, and a little fruit). I had a little less than an hour of free time before Compline at 7:30pm, which I spent in my room. After Compline, I took a walk around the monastery grounds and watched what I could of the sunset as the sun sank below the tree line, debating whether or not I should try to stay up to see if I could catch any of the meteor showers.

After thinking about it some more, though, I've decided that it might be better to go to bed now and wake up early, hopefully catching some of it before Vigils.


8/14/15

Didn't get to see anything, unfortunately. It was too cloudy. But it was nice to just walk around in the tranquil stillness and listen to the owls before Vigils. After Vigils, I sat in meditation with Abbott Peter, who's been gone for a couple of days. It was a relatively good sit. But, at the same time, there were so many things I wanted to ask that it was hard not having a mental conversation with him. I've never actually talked to him, although I suppose I could if I really wanted to. Br. Chris is the only monk I've really talked with so far.

That's one thing I don't like as much about Catholic monasteries vs. Buddhist ones—the monks are a lot more segregated from the people who visit than they are at Buddhist monasteries, where there's a stronger connection to the laity since they're entirely dependent on them for alms (especially food). You see the monks a lot, of course, during offices and whatnot, but you rarely get a chance to interact with them unless you arrange a one-on-one meeting for spiritual direction or something like that. On the other hand, it's probably good for their practice not to have the constant distraction.

I sat again at 6am before Lauds. Not a great sit, not a bad sit. Was slightly drowsy from waking up so early, but I'm surprised I'm not in worse shape. I'm averaging about five or six hours of sleep per night, and I'm usually grumpy and/or a zombie if I get less than seven or eight. Lauds/Mass was especially beautiful today. Hard to place my finger on why. It just was.

Today is the feast day of Maximilian Kolbe, a Polish priest and Conventual Franciscan friar who was arrested and sent to Auschwitz, where he died after selflessly taking the place of another inmate sentenced to the starvation bunker. It's an incredible story.

After Mass, I went on an early hike since it looked like it might rain later. I ran into Maria, one of the other retreatants, at the shrine and we talked for a while. She's been coming here for 19 years, and lives past Seattle (Snohomish I think). She said it's about a five hour drive. She mentioned that Christmas here is amazing and that she's going to be here for it. She said if I have any days left (you get a limit of ten days a year), I should consider trying to make it. Annie will be in Virginia with her parents, and I don't think I can afford to go to Michigan this time, so I think I might.

She asked which way I'd come, and I told her the right/longer path. She told me that she just uses the left/shorter one these days because some of the trails on the other one are so overgrown. I told her about how I got lost my first time up here, and she said that some hikers got themselves so lost recently they had to call the sheriff to come find them. (They probably don't have T-Mobile, because I can't get a signal to save my life.) She also told me about some of the paths I hadn't taken yet, like the one that overlooks the vineyards and has a view of Mt. Hood, and the one called Fr. Crockett, which has an old bucket and aspergillum (wand used to sprinkle holy water) somewhere along it. I tried both, but ended up getting lost down the Fr. Crockett trail. Never did find the forest blessing station, but was too stubborn to turn around and just kept walking. (I think I get that from my mom.) Followed my intuition, though, and eventually ended up behind the cloister (where you're not really supposed to go if you're not a monk), near the wine warehouse. One of the older monks showed me the way back towards the guest houses, mentioning that they're going to be planting hazelnuts soon to help make up for the lost revenue since the book bindery isn't as busy anymore. At least I didn't have to have the sheriff come find me.

When I got back, I discovered that Jeff's room was empty, which made me sad because he was such a good roomie. He's quiet, and we never seem to get in each other's way. But at Day Hour, I saw him with a white robe on, sitting with the monks. At dinner (hard-boiled egg, piece of bread, half an avocado, and blueberries), I found out from Carol that he's contemplating life as a monk and started his three-month observership. After dinner, I went to relax in my room with a cup of coffee and Swami Prabhavananda's The Sermon on the Mount According to Vedanta, which does a good job of elucidating the deeper and more esoteric meaning of this set of teachings.

At about 3pm, it started to pour, and I was glad I decided to hike earlier. Then a loud crack of thunder startled the hell out of me. I'm not used to hearing that here, and it kind of took me by surprise. It sounded like it was right above me. Later, I laid down and listened to it rain for a while, and drifted off to sleep. Luckily, I was smart enough to set my alarm just in case, otherwise I probably would've slept right through Vespers, meditation, and supper.

I noticed at Vespers that half the monks had freshly shaven heads. I wonder if that's a monthly thing like it is in some Buddhist traditions, or if it's due to some special reason, like tomorrow's solemnity, the assumption of Mary. At meditation, I had a good sit after playing around with my new breathing technique and a new mantra. And at supper, I talked a bit with Maria and Carol. I learned that Carol is a Dominican sister (and from New Jersey, which I should have guessed by the accent); and that James, Barbara's husband, completed his masters in the same program at U of P as Barbara. (For supper, half a tofurky sausage, fries, and ice cream with blueberries.)

Compline was empyreal (I learned a new word!). Afterwards, I took a walk to the pond and watched two deer as they leisurely grazed in the distance before trotting off down Old Garden Road. Then I walked towards the main road and gazed at the last rays of sunset—a perfect end to a perfect day.


8/15/15

I awoke rather reluctantly this morning. As has been the case most of my stay, I didn't fall asleep until after 10pm, partly because I couldn't get comfortable and partly because I couldn't stop thinking and having mental conversations with myself. I don't remember everything I was thinking about, but a lot of it was reflecting on some of what I'd read earlier and trying to explain, to myself via an imaginary interlocutor, why my beliefs and spiritual practices are important to me. It went something along the lines of:

I don't go to church, meditate, or read spiritual books to debate or convert anyone. I respect everyone's beliefs or lack thereof. If you're an atheist and believe that science alone can uncover all there is to know about the universe and our experience of it, that's fine. It's a valid approach. Beauty and meaning can be found in life without spiritual beliefs and practices. My girlfriend's an atheist and we have no conflicts about it whatsoever. Rather, I do these things because I find meaning in them; because I have an intuitive sense of something more underlying reality and human experience, a unifying force or awareness or potentiality, and I'm interested in exploring that feeling, as well as the spiritual experiences and knowledge that I believe help point the way towards its realization. I see in them a reflection of a continuing evolution in our consciousness (collective and individual) and connection to the universe.

Buddhism and Christianity, for example, are icons of this evolution, evincing existential, psychological, and spiritual developments through the transformative focal points of their founders. Both the Buddha and Jesus were influenced by their cultures, which were characterized by religious and ethnic tribalism, and led by a priestly caste in charge of rituals and sacrifices meant to control and/or manipulate the mysterious forces of life, reflecting an early state of consciousness that I think can be found at the beginning of most early religions. There was certainly an awareness of interbeing and the larger whole, but it was trapped within a kind of group identity, making it exclusive rather than inclusive. And there was certainly a reverence for creation, but it was trapped within a kind of fear. But out of these seeds grew a new kind of consciousness that increasingly pulled people out of their tribalism and fearful worship of the unknown—a maturation that can be found within the religious texts of their time, but which are given fuller expression in the Buddha and Jesus' respective teachings. Each utilized their cultural and religious language, but infused them with new meaning and perspective.

In Things Hidden, for instance, Richard Rohr talks of a "development of crucial divine wisdom" and stages of consciousness found in both the Bible and our history (12-3). And I think the Pali Canon, along with the Vedas and Upanisads before it, show such a development, as well. If we look closely, we can see this spiritual dialectic in most, if not all, religions. We can see that these cultures and ancient texts were trying to give expression to, and find ways of connecting with, their collective sense of something greater underlying experience (God, truth, the absolute, ground of being, or whatever label you want to place on it) through myths and stories, symbols pointing towards a deeper level of truth and shared knowledge/experience, "a full-body knowing, a cellular knowing ... a transference and sharing of Being" (63-4).

In essence, they're exploring the mystery of consciousness, something that's notoriously hard, if not impossible, to objectify; and ultimately pointing towards what I believe to be a unitive and even psychologically-healing experience piercing the illusion of our dualistic way of thinking, the illusion of separation between subject and object, between the non-spiritual and the spiritual, between matter (body) and spirit (mind). These stories first and foremost attempt to illustrate that what we call God or awakening isn't something outside of us, something 'otherworldly'—it can be experienced right here, right now. The Pali Canon talks of "touching the deathless element with the body" (AN 6.46). Jesus says "the kingdom of God is among/within us (Luke 17:21); and Paul writes that "your body is a temple of the holy Spirit within you" (1 Cor 6:19-20). Are they all delusional? Perhaps. Or perhaps they're talking about a shared reality/experience—a unifying awareness, a heightened state of consciousness, a glimpse through the veil of ignorance and into the absolute, a realization of the luminosity within us.

It sounds fanciful, I know; but the closer I come to this experience, the greater my faith in its reality grows. I know that many people have grasped these symbols too tightly, or else held them in the wrong way, so that they turn to bite them like the proverbial snake, creating fanatics and fundamentalists; and I share the concerns of others about them, and about those forcing others to agree with them. But that doesn't mean there isn't something of value here, that they haven't helped our progress as much as they've served to hinder it. Historically speaking, the religious and philosophical seekers of the time were often its best scientists. And science itself is just as easily capable of destroying whole cities as religion if held inappropriately. All I can say is that, if others want to walk with me on this journey, they're more than welcome. And if they don't, that's ok, too.

It sounded better in my head the night before, though.

Since it's the feast day of Mary's assumption into heaven, the day is a little different. On Sundays and solemnities, Vigils last longer, Lauds is moved from 6:30am to 7:15am (and meditation beforehand from 6am to 6:45am), Mass is moved from immediately after Lauds (around 7-7:15am) to 9:15am, and the bell-ringing before and after Vigils, Day Hour, and Compline is occasionally different.

Since the Psalms that are used for Vigils during solemnities aren't in the monastic office book guests use, I simply listened to the singing this morning. As one would expect, many of the hymns/antiphons were about Mary. I was so tired, though, that I decided to skip meditation and tried to nap for an hour before Lauds. I had another strange dream, this time with wolves.

After Lauds, I ate breakfast (granola cereal, as usual) and was thinking over some of the things from last night. One thing I remember, thanks in part to some notes that I took, was about how these kinds of unitive experiences are, or at least can be, psychologically healthy and even healing. For example, we (and religious traditions in general) often start with seeking forgiveness from outside of ourselves, from God (Other). But then we're eventually pointed within to heal our alienation and the split in our ego personified by the eating of the fruit from the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.

Jesus, for instance, says that the kingdom of God is within us; and Paul says things like the spirit of God dwells within the temple of our bodies, and that he no longer lives but Christ lives in him. The message, I think, is clear, 'God is within us.' So when we ask forgiveness for our sins (our unskillful actions conditioned by greed, aversion, and delusion in Buddhist terms) from God, we're really asking forgiveness from ourselves; and when God forgives us, it's ultimately we who are forgiving ourselves, emptying our heart of its burdens, like Christ emptying Hades of its inhabitants. In essence, we turn to, and then merge with, what Rohr calls the "Ultimate Constituting Other" (58), which is a good thing because then we can start to truly look within for things like healing, love, forgiveness, and validation.

And eventually, we can transcend even this stage once we see through the illusory dichotomy between subject and object, leaving behind a truly non-dual, unifying awareness. When we peel back the 'I am' and see with clarity the interconnectedness of all things, there is no Self and Other, there is neither 'I' nor 'you.' At that point, everyone we meet becomes us, becomes Christ, and loving our neighbour as our self will become effortless. As Rohr puts it, "It is not that if I am moral, then I will be loved by God, but rather I must first come to experience God's love, and then I will–almost naturally–be moral" (30). This unifying experience is a complete realignment of our awareness, our very being. Christ in that sense isn't so much a person as an ideal, a mystical experience...

That was more or less the train of thought I had at the time, anyway. And before I knew it, it was time for Mass. Mass is always so beautiful here, especially on solemnities and Sundays. I can't help but get completely absorbed in its devotional spirit. And this one even more so, with its devotion to the divine feminine in the form of Mary. I ate dinner quickly (mashed potatoes, peas, green beans, and salad), eager to take my daily hike to the shrine. On the way back, I composed an impromptu homily on Mary. The gist was:

There's a lot written about the theology of Mary, about the conception and birth of Jesus, and her bodily assumption into heaven. But I personally tend to avoid those kinds of things, finding it too easy to get lost within them and the 'thicket of views' that I create around them. Instead, I find it more useful to focus on the story of her life as a source of inspiration.

Mary is inspiring to me because, even at an early age, she seems to be a contemplative at heart and listens to God with complete trust. When God, or the voice inside of her, said, "This is the path that you're called to walk if you choose to follow it," she simply said yes. She heard God's call and answered, and part of that call was to be a mother.

As a mother, she raised her child with love and care and patience, possibly even in the midst of poverty and the scorn of those who thought her an adulterer (I leave speculations about the paternity of her son to you). She raised him so well, in fact, that we all know who he is, whether or not we believe in the story of his resurrection. And even though we don't hear much about her spiritual life from Jesus' disciples, I see in her a true contemplative, and suspect that a great deal of Jesus' wisdom came from her.

I aspire to be as wise and as selfless and as humble as Mary, to have the inner silence to hear God and answer yes, to know what is right and to do it, which is a lot harder than it sounds. Like being nice to someone who annoys me, for instance. I know that I should be kind and have love and compassion for everyone I meet, not only because they're a reflection of Christ (the personification of the potential within all of us), but by virtue of being a person. But oftentimes I don't. I don't see the person, only my annoyance at the things they do or say that I don't like. I don't see the presence of God, their buddha-nature, even though it's hidden in there somewhere.

But I bet Mary could. And in her assumption, I see the story of someone so incredible and worthy of devotion, that she was lifted straight to heaven because of her boundless love, compassion, and wisdom.

I probably shouldn't quit my day job.

Vespers came and went, and I felt a touch of melancholy knowing that it was the last of this stay. I made sure to make it to meditation afterwards, and it was the best sit I've had all week. I focused on the bottom of my diaphragm again and repeated a new mantra, breaking up the words between my in and out breaths: ↑Jesus ↓Christ, ↑open ↓my heart, ↑enlighten ↓my darkness. Compline was even more beautiful than usually tonight, suffused with the monks' devotion to Mary. I left the chapel happy and uplifted, lazily meandering my way towards the main road to watch the sunset. And as I approached the road, a hawk flew right over my head, so close I could scarcely believe it—a perfect end to yet another perfect day.


8/16/15

Sigh. My last day.

As I sit here writing this, waiting for Annie to pick me up to take me back into 'the world' and thinking about the past week, it's hard not to feel sad. In some ways, I feel like I'm leaving home. For me, monasteries are such wonderful places because they give you the time, solitude, and structure to help foster the necessary attitudes and mental states to live a truly contemplative life. Day by day, you feel yourself growing more in touch with yourself, and with those around you. Life becomes so serene when you remove what's superfluous from it, when you begin and end your day celebrating your existence, and every moment, suffusing it with a sense of love and devotion. Monasteries are often places deeply connected to, and protective of, nature, as well, becoming a place of refuge for both spiritual seekers and animals alike. How could I not feel sad leaving such a place? To me, it feels like the only sane place in the world.

8/6/15

Yesterday was my first time back at B-. Since Fr. Michael is still in LA, Kathleen led the discussion, and almost everyone was there except Chris and Dorothy. We started with a printout of a short bio of Jean-Pierre de Caussade. Caussade was a Jesuit priest and mystic who focused on the importance of being in the present moment and surrendering ourselves to God: "If we have abandoned ourselves to God, there is only one rule for us: the duty of the present moment." In this, his approach was quite similar to Buddhism.

A lot of questions were raised during the discussion that I wanted to address but wasn't sure how to without using a lot of Buddhist concepts and terms, which I knew would be lost on many, so I mostly just listened. One issue was the purpose of being 'in the present.' From the Buddhist point of view, this is where the work of the meditator is done, where mindfulness can help us uproot our defilements and strengthen our skillful states of mind. It's also where we can cultivate the insights leading to the realization of Dhamma, truth, through sustained practice of meditative techniques and contemplation:

Monks, I do not say that the attainment of gnosis is all at once. Rather, the attainment of gnosis is after gradual training, gradual action, gradual practice. And how is there the attainment of gnosis after gradual training, gradual action, gradual practice? There is the case where, when conviction has arisen, one visits [a teacher]. Having visited, one grows close. Having grown close, one lends ear. Having lent ear, one hears the Dhamma. Having heard the Dhamma, one remembers it. Remembering, one penetrates the meaning of the teachings. Penetrating the meaning, one comes to an agreement through pondering the teachings. There being an agreement through pondering the teachings, desire arises. When desire has arisen, one is willing. When one is willing, one contemplates. Having contemplated, one makes an exertion. Having made an exertion, one realizes with the body the ultimate truth and, having penetrated it with discernment, sees it. (MN 70)

But what is Dhamma? In Buddhism, Dhamma is twofold. It refers to (1) the teachings/symbols pointing towards (2) a profound truth. That truth is an experience/way of perceiving reality that leads to a new mode of being and connection with the absolute; and that new mode of being is an existential transformation lifting us above the fear and suffering we experience through our ignorance and craving/clinging, the reality of things as they are when seen with a calm, clear, and ultimately selfless mind—a mode of being where, in the words of Caussade, we're able to "embrace the present moment as an ever-flowing source of holiness."

Although Buddhism and Christianity talk about this mode of being in different terms, I think they're talking about a similar experience, one that words are unable to fully express. And while people may argue over the language used in communicating the intellectual frameworks we attempt to build around this experience, this awakening or theosis, so that we can try to understand it and the means of achieving it, I suspect that they're arguing over the symbols rather than what they're actually pointing towards, whether it be the luminous mind of Buddhism or the presence of God dwelling within the temple of our bodies.

That said, it seems to me the Western Church has historically been suspicious of mystics and their approach to spirituality, opting instead for a more intellectual and legalistic one. But I agree with Karl Rahner, via Knitter in Without Buddha I Could not be a Christian, that "Christians will be mystics, or they will not be anything" (15), which I take to mean that an experience of God is essential for having a truly fulfilling spiritual life. And that experience, along with the insights that come with it, will in turn open us up to the truth underlying all religions, or as Knitter puts it:

I believe I have discovered something that I suspect characterizes religious experience in whatever tradition or historical context: the more deeply one enters into the core experience that animates one's own tradition, the more broadly one is enabled and perhaps moved to enter into the experiences of other traditions. The more deeply one sinks into one's own religious truth, the more broadly one can appreciate and learn from other truths. (215-16)

In essence, I truly believe that the message of the mystic is ultimately the same message of Jesus—a universal and unifying message linking us to God and to each other by means of which we "may come to share in the divine nature, after escaping from the corruption that is in the world because of evil desire" (2 Peter 1:4).

8/4/15

Where has all the time gone? A year ago today, I was spending the last day of my five-day visit to Our Lady of Guadalupe writing about my experience, wondering if "I'll ever find God or become Catholic or both and one day enter a Trappist monastery." And a year later, I've been baptized and confirmed into the faith, and preparing for my second visit to the abbey. Except this time, it's more out of grief than uncertainty and curiosity. I went to the 8am mass at St. Philip this morning, mainly because it's the feast day of St. John Vianney and to commemorate the beginning of this journey (and journal). I still vividly recall my last day at Our Lady, listening to the story of St. John Vianney and being inspired by it, wondering what the future held. I had no idea that in the coming year I'd discover St. Philip and join the Church, or that I'd lose my mom and have my newly found faith shaken to the point of collapse. It's still so hard to get passed, to see beyond the pain and suffering of her last days of life. But I'm trying, and I hope that this visit will help.

8/2/15

Today at mass, Fr. Charlie's homily really spoke to me. For starters, he talked a lot about loss of faith, which I can definitely relate to at the moment. I feel like the lost sheep in Luke, waiting to be found out in the desert. And not just because I've lost faith in the path I'm on, but in people, too. Even myself. But that's where daily bread comes in, which not only comes in the form of the Eucharist, but everything in life that helps and encourages us. In some ways, daily bread is "who we are and who we're called to be."

Life's a journey, and our daily bread is the spiritual food for the journey, that which nourishes and heals and inspires us. For me, that's been the Eucharist, but also the people in my life who have been there for me and the situations that have brought joy back into my heart. Fr. Charlie mentioned Mark 2:17, where Jesus says, "Those who are well do not need a physician, but the sick do. I did not come to call the righteous but sinners," saying that he believed the Eucharist was for everyone who needs healing.

The readings themselves caught my attention, too, having rather Buddhist ideas/parallels. In the second reading from Ephesians, Paul tells the Ephesians (and us), "that you should put away the old self of your former way of life, corrupted through deceitful desires, and be renewed in the spirit of your minds, and put on the new self, created in God’s way in righteousness and holiness of truth." And in the gospel reading from John, Jesus speaks of a non-perishable kind of bread that "endures for eternal life."

The former, I think, corresponds to the teachings on anatta, where the 'old self' refers to one not well-versed in the teachings of the noble ones, and the 'new self' refers to one firmly on the path. The latter, on the other hand, reminds me of the teachings on nutriment and the feeding habits of the mind/body. The only difference is that Jesus uses the imagery of "food that endures for eternal life," while Buddhism uses the imagery of a mind that no longer has to feed; but I think they're both pointing in the same direction.

At the moment, though, all of that's far beyond me. I'm still struggling with the grief and the sadness and the emptiness I feel. I'm still trying to find the light at the end of this dark tunnel. But I've made arrangements to stay at Our Lady of Guadalupe for six days in the hopes that maybe some time in prayer and solitude in such a wonderful place will help me heal and discover the path that God had laid out before me.

7/29/15

I remembered a story my mom told me from when I was little. Tom Archibald was a former rum-runner and Purple Gang member who lived at the hotel I used to live at when I was a kid. He was about 70 then. For some reason, he liked me and would talk to me, although he didn't talk much to anyone else. After he died, my mom found me talking to him out of the window (we lived on the second story overlooking Madison Ave. in downtown Detroit). I told her I saw him sitting in the tree outside our second story window...

Today would've been my mom's 63rd birthday. I originally planned on spending over a month in Michigan so that I could spend it with her. I had no idea at the time that she wouldn't make it that long, that her body had finally endured all that it was capable of handling. It's still hard for me to believe that she's gone. She was so stubborn and won every battle she fought; and I half-assumed that this time would be no different. I miss her terribly, and I'd do anything to spend one more birthday with her...

When it comes to religion, I think it's not so much about what you believe as it is about whether what you believe leads you to do what is right. I suppose the real question is, What is right? And while the answer to that question has dominated theological arguments for millennia, I think the Buddha gave the clearest/most succinct answer: that which leads to the long-term welfare and happiness of ourselves and others, something I suspect even Jesus would agree with. Purity is found through right intention and action, not simply adhering to one dogma or another:

"And how is one made pure in three ways by bodily action? There is the case where a certain person, abandoning the taking of life, abstains from the taking of life. He dwells with his rod laid down, his knife laid down, scrupulous, merciful, compassionate for the welfare of all living beings. Abandoning the taking of what is not given, he abstains from taking what is not given. He does not take, in the manner of a thief, things in a village or a wilderness that belong to others and have not been given by them. Abandoning sensual misconduct, he abstains from sensual misconduct. He does not get sexually involved with those who are protected by their mothers, their fathers, their brothers, their sisters, their relatives, or their Dhamma; those with husbands, those who entail punishments, or even those crowned with flowers by another man. This is how one is made pure in three ways by bodily action.

"And how is one made pure in four ways by verbal action? There is the case where a certain person, abandoning false speech, abstains from false speech. When he has been called to a town meeting, a group meeting, a gathering of his relatives, his guild, or of the royalty, if he is asked as a witness, 'Come & tell, good man, what you know': If he doesn't know, he says, 'I don't know.' If he does know, he says, 'I know.' If he hasn't seen, he says, 'I haven't seen.' If he has seen, he says, 'I have seen.' Thus he doesn't consciously tell a lie for his own sake, for the sake of another, or for the sake of any reward. Abandoning false speech, he abstains from false speech. He speaks the truth, holds to the truth, is firm, reliable, no deceiver of the world. Abandoning divisive speech he abstains from divisive speech. What he has heard here he does not tell there to break those people apart from these people here. What he has heard there he does not tell here to break these people apart from those people there. Thus reconciling those who have broken apart or cementing those who are united, he loves concord, delights in concord, enjoys concord, speaks things that create concord. Abandoning abusive speech, he abstains from abusive speech. He speaks words that are soothing to the ear, that are affectionate, that go to the heart, that are polite, appealing & pleasing to people at large. Abandoning idle chatter, he abstains from idle chatter. He speaks in season, speaks what is factual, what is in accordance with the goal, the Dhamma, & the Vinaya. He speaks words worth treasuring, seasonable, reasonable, circumscribed, connected with the goal. This is how one is made pure in four ways by verbal action.

"And how is one made pure in three ways by mental action? There is the case where a certain person is not covetous. He does not covet the belongings of others, thinking, 'O, that what belongs to others would be mine!' He bears no ill will and is not corrupt in the resolves of his heart. [He thinks,] 'May these beings be free from animosity, free from oppression, free from trouble, and may they look after themselves with ease!' He has right view and is not warped in the way he sees things: 'There is what is given, what is offered, what is sacrificed. There are fruits & results of good & bad actions. There is this world & the next world. There is mother & father. There are spontaneously reborn beings; there are brahmans & contemplatives who, faring rightly & practicing rightly, proclaim this world & the next after having directly known & realized it for themselves.' This is how one is made pure in three ways by mental action. (AN 10.165)

7/27/15

I haven't been motivated to write much lately. The death of my mom has taken most of the wind from my proverbial sails, and I just don't have the desire to write. It's not that I've stopped going to church or anything; I've been going every Sunday. And I've received a lot of nice messages of support from Fr. Michael and everyone at St. Philip. But ever since my mom passed away, it's been hard for me to think much about things, let alone write about them. I've stopped praying regularly, too. Emotionally, it's been a challenging month.

I think another problem is that I've missed home. My time in Michigan has once again impressed upon me how special of a place St. Philip is, and how great the St. Philip community is. Not just on a personal and spiritual level, but on a social/political level, as well. I went to St. Clement (now St. Mary, Our Lady Queen of Families) on Sunday, June 28th, the day after my mom passed away and two days after the Supreme Court decision in favour of same-sex marriage. Although I was consumed by grief at the loss of my mother (as I think I still am), I was also happy about the decision, as were many of the people at St. Philip judging by all the Facebook updates and rainbow-filtered profile pics I saw. But it seems others were less so.

I went to church that day, I think, primarily to pray for the strength to be a cushion for my family, reflecting a lot on the homily Fr. Michael gave the Sunday before I left Portland. The readings were about death and healing, and I recall feeling conflicted. The first reading was from the Book of Wisdom:

God did not make death,
nor does he rejoice in the destruction of the living.
For he fashioned all things that they might have being;
and the creatures of the world are wholesome,
and there is not a destructive drug among them
nor any domain of the netherworld on earth,
for justice is undying.
For God formed man to be imperishable;
the image of his own nature he made him.
But by the envy of the devil, death entered the world,
and they who belong to his company experience it. (Wis 1:13-15; 2:23-24)

In some ways, it sounds like death, dissolution, isn't something natural, but a corruption of what was made perfect, imperishable; and I found myself wondering how something that's by nature imperishable could become otherwise. Later, however, reading these lines in context, I saw that they weren't referring to physical death so much as spiritual death, which is tied into morality. In essence, it's about our potential, our ability to transcend.

One footnote on the beginning of the first chapter in the NABRE translation, for example. offered, "The reward is the gift of immortality, to the righteous (1:15; 3:1–3), but not to the wicked"; and another on the word 'undying' noted that, "immortality is not seen as an innate quality of the soul but as a gift of God to the righteous." That made more sense to me, and I found it more in line with my experience of reality, which is full of inconstancy, of arising and ceasing, birth and death. Immortality, awakening, or whatever we want to call it, is an attainment, a gift to the righteous (i.e., those who follow the noble eightfold path)—a journey that can conceivably take lifetimes to complete.

The last reading was from the Gospel of Mark, where a woman is healed simply by touching Jesus' robe and Jesus raises a young girl seemingly from the dead; and I found myself both sad and angry, wishing that my mom had been healed. Why did she have to suffer so much? Why did she have to die so young? I do recall enjoying the homily, especially the parts inspired by the reading from 2 Corinthians, though I don't remember much of it. My thoughts kept returning to my mom.

But at the end, just before the final blessing, the pastor read an excerpt from a statement written by Archbishop Joseph Kurtz, the USCCB president, basically slamming the decision, and then suggested that this decision was an attack on their First Amendment rights, which apparently protects the right of Catholics to oppress anyone and everyone they disagree with—an attitude greatly contrasting with the compassion and open-mindedness at St. Philip. I thought it the most unChristian things I'd ever heard uttered in a church, and it truly upset me. I vowed never to return.

The next Sunday I went to St. Louise de Marillac. It wasn't a great experience, but it wasn't a bad one, either. Nothing really stands out about it. The Sunday after that, I went to St. Anne downtown since I was spending the week at my friend's place in Woodbridge. Sadly, most of the churches nearby were closed, and it was the closest Catholic church. I'd wanted to go to Spirit of Hope, an Episcopal/Lutheran church I went to for the first Occupy Detroit general assembly meeting in 2011, but they don't seem to have Sunday services anymore. Happily, though, St. Anne was nice and welcoming. The homily was long and encouraged us to confront injustice and be generous to the poor.

The last Sunday I was there, I went to Our Lady of Grace (formerly St. Cletus); and it was much like my experience at St. Louise. Not great, but not bad. It's like whatever spark St. Philip has is missing from a lot of other parishes; and I think a lot of that spark comes from the Paulists and their approach to Catholic spirituality. Suffice it to say that I was happy to be back, especially for the mass said for my mom, which Chris (from B-/RCIA) arranged.

I saw a lot of familiar faces, many of whom gave me their condolences. Fr. Bill was the celebrant, and he gave an interesting homily. At the beginning, he passed around a wooden Eucharistic set he made while on vacation and which he later used during communion. He also talked a lot about the importance of environmentalism and ecology and how we need to take care of our collective home. He said we're the center of creation, "creation become conscious," and that that gift also comes with a certain responsibility.

That message, inspired by Pope Francis' encyclical Laudato Si: On Care for Our Common Home, is one that truly resonates with me, and one of many where I find my spiritual and political beliefs converge. In Genesis, we find the idea that we are both masters and stewards of our world, meaning that there must be a balance between our use and enjoyment of what nature provides and the care and reverence with which we treat it (environmentalism), which I think is complemented by the communal ideal in places like Acts 4:32-35, where the community of believers lived by the maxim, 'From each according to his ability, to each according to his needs' (communism/social justice).

In some ways, things are beginning to feel like they're getting back to 'normal.' But in others, I feel like they've been changed forever, especially when it comes to my faith. Being confronted so intimately by death and loss, I find myself questioning the inherent goodness of the world, as well as any purpose we might have in our short time here. I also find myself questioning my relationship with God. The presence that I once thought I felt has been replaced by a deep, abiding emptiness that frightens me. I feel as if I've been set adrift, with no safe harbour in sight. My only refuge this past month has been the love and support of others, which I suppose reflects the love of God. But at the same time, God has never felt so distant.

7/10/15

On June 24th, I got the call that I'd been dreading for years—the call that my mom was dying. She'd had a lot of health problems, and there'd been a number of close calls over the last couple of years ranging from illnesses to open heart surgery. Each time I thought, "This might be it. This might be the time I lose her." Looking back, I suppose one of the few graces of having a family member with a history of serious health problems is that it can help prepare you for the inevitable. At least it doesn't hit you out of the blue; you have the time and impetus to imagine the possibility, to emotionally prepare, to build up the reserve of strength needed to face one of the most painful experiences of your life, that of losing someone you love, without being completely overwhelmed.

Even still, I wasn't really prepared; I wasn't really ready for the fear, anger, and sadness that was looming over me, and my family, like a gigantic tidal wave about the crash down and all but obliterate my fragile being, sweeping away everything in its path—all of my hope, joy, and faith in the future. As I sat there in the airport Wednesday night, in the midst of struggling to deal with the reality of my mom's situation, I remember being struck by the nonchalantness and even callousness with which we often treat death and dying in our culture. It's as if, in our fear of death, we do everything in our power to deny it, hide it, romanticize it, or joke about it, anything to take away the power of its sting. But while these things may help us cope with its existence and inevitability, they rarely do much to prepare us for the reality and actual experience of watching a loved one die, of holding their hand as they spend the last few hours of their life gasping for breath.

I suppose that death can be beautiful or heroic depending on the circumstances; but in my experience, death is painful, torturous, heart-wrenching, full of monitors, needles, moans, tears, and parades of names and faces who do their best to be compassionate and supportive when they're not too stressed from being overworked, underpaid, and/or trying to push your loved one out as quickly as possible in order to free up a bed for the next customer/patient. For anyone who's spent enough time in them to notice, hospitals are revolving doors of the sick and dying, although they could (and should) be more. Money should have nothing to do with caring for the sick, the elderly, and the dying. Money shouldn't dictate the level and quality of care, or the concern with which they're administered. And yet it does. Reflecting on everything my mom had been through and endured, not the mention the mountains of red tape, bills, and collection notices, I was saddened by how we've cheapened life, how we've made life more about making money (mostly for someone else), or else worrying about not having enough, than actually living. All those wasted years...

Suffice it to say that I was lost, heartbroken. My faith in something greater than myself was tested and destroyed before being raised up again like Lazarus. I had nothing to hold onto. All my prayers had seemingly gone unanswered. Any purpose to life I once believed in seemed all but imaginary. Only the pain and sadness I felt were real. I watched Aliens on the flight; and with every bump of turbulence, I thought that at least my pain would end if I were to die. Midway through, they called for a doctor. Someone was having a medical emergency. I'm not sure how serious it was, but after we landed a lady was helped off by EMTs before the rest of us could exit, and I hoped that she'd be OK.

Tracey, one of my closest and dearest friends, picked me up from the airport and took me to my parent's house. I thought it'd be better to go up with my dad, although now I kind of wish I'd just gone straight to the hospital to spend as much time with my mom as possible. As I sat there, waiting for my dad to drive us up to the hospital to see her, trying to let it sink in that we were possibly just a breath or two away from losing her, I felt sick, shaky, alone, wanting to cry and scream at the same time and hating myself for not coming sooner. I felt empty of everything except this sickening fear and guilt. I think I was still in shock, and I imagine that what I felt in that moment was similar to what someone who's just experienced a natural disaster might feel—half confusion and half terror. It was all a blur, and the next thing I knew, I was at the hospital, winding my way down corridors and past room after room while trying to mentally prepare myself for the worst.

No words can adequately describe the sheer emptiness I felt, nor the pain, grief, and despair that came bubbling out of that ineffable darkness. The sadness and tears came in waves that threatened to drown me. I was buffeted by anguish, and it felt as if some sort of cosmic sinkhole had opened up beneath me, swallowing every ounce of goodness and stability from my world. By then, she was barely conscious/cognizant, but still seemingly in a lot of pain, moaning and what almost sounded like crying at times. I think part of her knew what was happening. When they came in to tell us they recommended putting her in hospice, it felt like everything was spinning. I couldn't think straight. I couldn't talk. I couldn't do anything but hold her hand, afraid to let go, as if she'd drift away the moment I did.

They said that everything was starting to shut down — her kidney, her heart, her respiratory system — and that there wasn't much more they could do. Once my dad signed the papers, they put her on a steady drip of pain medication to help keep her comfortable. I think it was hydromorphone, also known as Dilaudid; and after they started her on it, she slept heavily, which seemed to us better than the alternative. But at the same time, I was afraid, afraid that she'd never wake up again, afraid that I'd never be able to tell her one more time how much I loved her or hear her tell me the same.

My dad and sister were equally as devastated, as was my aunt Debbie. As we all sat there, taking turns holding her hand and talking to her, we were each overwhelmed by grief. A part of me wanted to die with her. Every time I tried to talk to Annie on the phone to let her know what was happening, I broke down into tears. Words would turn into sobs. Trying to find both privacy and decent cell reception, I passed by the gift shop where only a year ago we'd gotten something for my mom when she was in for her heart surgery, and the memory was like a dagger in my heart, letting my sadness bleed out in uncontrollable spurts over the phone. Annie got a flight that night and flew in the next morning.

Tara and I spent the night at the hospital. Neither one of us wanted to leave her side. Orlando, a friend of Tara's from school, came up to visit for a while. The next day, my mom's eyes were open, though she wasn't blinking, and her breathing had become more laboured and shallow. They said, in so many words, that it was only a matter of time, hours or maybe days, but definitely soon. People came and went — her cousin Cindi, her childhood friend Carol, some of Tara's friends who had known her — but what I remember most is sitting by her side and holding her hand, telling her that I loved her and that she wasn't alone. I remember crying a lot. It was like I was stuck in a bad dream I couldn't wake up from. My dad said some really touching, heartfelt things and I wished that she could hear them. At the same time, I was angry at him for not telling me sooner how serious things were. Maybe he didn't want me to worry, or maybe he didn't fully realize it himself, but neither thought comforted me or assuaged my feelings of anger and guilt.

By this time, Annie had arrived, alternating between being a silent watcher, a fellow griever, and an angel of mercy and comfort. She took time with each of us, and seemed to always say or do the right things, having the compassion of a bodhisattva and the patience of a saint, enduring her own grief and the burden of ours with a strength I still marvel at. Her presence was my only refuge, the only thing that kept me sane. That night, June 27th, my mom passed away sometime after midnight with Annie, Tara, and I by her side, her hand in mine.

I can't remember who called him, either me or Tara, but we let our dad know, who'd left only an hour before to let the dog out and get some rest. He came and said his goodbyes, signed some papers, and had the chaplain on duty come to say a prayer. I wasn't enthused about the idea of some random person who didn't know us saying generic things and quoting cliche scriptural passages at such an intimate and emotional time, but I figured if it'd make my dad feel better, what's the harm? Afterwards, my dad, who was close to inconsolable, went out to talk to the chaplain alone and, while expressing his grief, also managed to share his theories about aliens seeding life on Earth and possibly being what we believe to be angels/God with him. That poor man. We left the hospital around 3am, and headed home in the somber darkness and mournful rain.

For the next few days, almost every waking moment was consumed by worry and all the funeral arrangements. All I felt like doing was crawling into a hole and crying, but bureaucracy demanded otherwise. And the whole time, I had trouble believing that she was really gone. Her presence permeated the house, and I kept half-expecting to see her sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee. It killed me every time I reminded myself... Making all the arrangements was a surreal, as well as painful, experience; and in between all the phone calls and running around, I was trying to think of something to say at her memorial, but the words refused to come. In some ways, I don't think I wanted to make it final. I eventually settled on Rudy Funeral Home in part because it doubles as a small nautical museum. My mom loved lighthouses, and I love weird things, so it seemed like the right choice. In addition, Kathy was really nice and helpful.

We decided to have my mom cremated. It was her wish, which worked out well since it was also the only thing we could really afford to do. It's extremely expensive to bury someone once you factor in the cost of preparing the body, caskets, burial plots, and all the other related fees and expenses. Cards. Flowers. Food. You also need like a hundred copies of the death certificate (usually $15 each, although you get a discount after the first couple) because everyone will want one. Annie helped out with the planning and cost more than I expected, and I don't think I could have done any of it without her. Looking back, she was like a heavenly messenger, guiding us all through the darkest days of our lives with perfect love, compassion, and patience.

The memorial service itself, which we scheduled for July 1st (inadvertently falling on the full moon), turned out really nice. A lot of people showed up, many that I didn't even expect. Tracey helped pick out the main flower arrangements and paid for them, a pair of garden-variety flowers, one with 'mom' and one with 'beloved wife' on the ribbons, which were lovely. Annie's parents sent roses that were equally as lovely, and a few others sent arrangements as well, including the video game club Tara was the president of at Macomb Community College. We chose a picture of my mom from 1975 to display next to the urn. It was one of her favourites. She was young and beautiful and I know that that's how she'd like people to remember her. Like my dad said, it was more about celebrating her life than memorializing her passing.

It was a solemn occasion, but the day wasn't without humour. My dad's sisters mistook my friend Chris, who can't speak well due to a stroke, for me, and told him they were sorry for his loss while I was standing nearby. I just smiled, declining to correct the error, happy for the temporary respite from the obligatory stream of condolences. Kathy got a semi-retired Catholic priest, Fr. Dennis Nowinski, to lead the service. He was nice and soft-spoken, with a good sense of humour. The service was a lot like daily mass, with prayers, a couple of scriptural readings, and a short homily. The only thing missing was communion. It was a little awkward, though, since most of the people there weren't Catholic or even necessarily religious; but I think he did a good job nonetheless.

My dad, Tara, and I, along with my mom's cousin Cindi, Mrs. Sylvester, one of Tara's teachers from middle school, and Barbara, a long-time friend of my mom's, all got up to say something about her. My dad went first, and was surprisingly eloquent, if a bit long-winded. Next up was Cindi. Between the two, they said everything I'd planned on saying, although I did my best to follow them without being too repetitive. I talked about how my mom was our rock, an extraordinary source of comfort and strength who was always there for us, whether we needed advice or a shoulder to cry on or someone to bail us out of jail (definitely not one of my finer moments). I talked about how the Finnish word sisu (a stubborn kind of courage, strength, and resilience that characterizes the spirit of the Finnish people) summed her up perfectly, how her life was an example of sisu, and how she did her best to instill that quality in all of us. And I talked about how, now that she's gone, it's our turn to follow her example and be rocks for one another as much as possible, regardless of whatever else life decides to throw at us.

It's been almost two weeks now since she passed away, yet I still don't feel like I've had the time or space to let it all sink in, to really grieve or whatever it is that you're supposed to do. Instead, I feel numb, empty, and it kind of scares me. Then again, I've often had trouble expressing my emotions. Everything tends to get bottled up inside, like a pressure cooker, until it eventually explodes in a violent eruption of tears and anguish and self-loathing. It's the way I've always been. Thankfully, some of it came out at the hospital. But the moment she died, it became all about my dad, my sister, and the funeral. Once that was over, though, I was left feeling hollow.

I'm trying to go on with life as usual, taking things one day at a time, but it's not quite working. I can go through all the motions OK, but everything feels different, less real or fun or important. I'm just kind of sad all the time and doing my best to distract myself from the emotional void that's growing inside of me. On top of all that, the world seems even crazier and more absurd to me than before; and the people I find myself increasingly relating to the most are the religious hermits who turn their backs on the world because the world has turned its back on itself. The only thing that's helped to fill the void, the only thing that's helped to heal the hurt and pierce the numbness, has been the love and support of others.