These are the best days—August, September, and even into early October; autumn by the Celtic calendar—the good days before the earth turns its back on the sun and we descend into darkness, before the planet finally goes too far for the tilt of its axis and our part of the world falls into shadow, underexposed to the light.
It’s not paradise, but the way I feel this time of year is closer to how I should feel. The quality of my life is closest to the way it ought to be, to the way I imagine it first was for Adam and Eve. I cope better. At home, I’m nearly the picture of patience and kindness. Relaxed. Engaged. In the morning, I manage to pray and to exercise to strengthen my core and to fit in everything else I need to do before work. In the evening, I still have energy; I am ready for rest at bedtime without exhaustion or irritability. I bring more enthusiasm to my job. For the most part, I feel even and stable and in a good mood. Almost human.
Friday, September 19, 2008
Thursday, September 18, 2008
Day After Hockey-Day
I love Day After Hockey-Day. No matter how sore or bruised or deprived of sleep I am the morning after a hockey game, I always feel good—positive and charged, possessing energy far superior to what comes from sleep. All day long I ride this high and have to be careful not to go too hard, because I really am tired and need to recover. Day After Hockey-Day is way better than Hockey Day, with its creeping anxiety and waves of adrenaline and finally fatigue by the time the puck drops that night. I have to play games with myself to relax. It’s just another workout, I say. Have fun. Just show up and don’t worry about how you’ll do. You’ll be glad you went. And I always do fine. I always have fun. I always am glad I played. But I enjoy Day After Hockey-Day even more than I do the game itself.
Monday, September 1, 2008
Seasons and Cycles (2)
Note: This post is a continuation of a previous post. The first three paragraphs are from the original.
Our lives are marked by seasons and cycles, ebbs and flows and pendulum swings. Even our progressions are circular, spiraling around a line.
In August the earth hurtles toward equinox, the equanimity of darkness and light. The planet has traveled enough in its orbit that the mornings are laden with dimness and dew. The birds, triggered by the glimmering of dawn, are at this time of year in the midst of their singing during my morning prayers. When I get up, the world is still heavy with dark, heavy in the half-light of dawn. When I drive to work, I need the visor to shield my eyes from the risen sun.
The earth keeps spinning on its axis, the moon continues to orbit the earth, and these two, together with the other planets and the bodies within their influence, go on wheeling around the sun, the fixed point in all of this movement.
On September 1st, the church year begins, the cycle of feasts and fasts. On the eighth, we celebrate the first of the twelve major feasts—the Nativity of Mary, the Mother of God. The story goes that Mary’s parents, Joachim and Anna, were unable to conceive a child. In ancient Hebrew culture, this was a great disgrace, a sign of God’s displeasure, because it meant that Joachim’s line would die, that they could not through childbearing participate in the continuing work of creation, that they would not be able to bring the Messiah into the world—for certain, Israel’s promised deliverer would not come through them. Into their old age, these servants of God prayed for a child, but their prayers were not answered.
One day, Joachim went to the temple to make his offering and was turned away by the high priest, who reproached him for his lack of descendants and humiliated him by turning him away. Bitterly Joachim fled to the hills to sit in his despair and hide his shame. Praying there, he was visited by an angel, who at the same time appeared to Anna in their home in Jerusalem. The angel announced that Anna would bear a child who would be blessed by God, whose name would be known throughout the world. In her gratitude, Anna promised her child to God, and Joachim, more than a little uplifted, hurried home. They met at the city gate and embraced, full of joy.
And we rejoice. Out of the barrenness of the aged curse of brokenness and death comes life. With Mary’s birth, the womb foreordained to bear God—to contain the Uncontainable and make possible the union of God and man—enters the world. God’s incarnation, the basis of our faith, already is set in motion at her conception.
The year begins with so much promise. New clothes and school supplies, new classes. The approach of the autumn harvest. The beginning of sports seasons, Sunday school, book clubs and other groups. After a summer of recess and recreation, we welcome the return of routine and structure and purpose. Everything is fresh and new. And with the earliest hints of color in the trees and crispness in the air, with the blue skies and clear light of September, with the better rest that comes with cooler weather and earlier sunsets—with so much transformation in the air, it’s easy to believe that the birth of Mary, the Theotokos (Mother of God), as we sing in the kontakion hymn on the day of the feast, is not just the promise of goodness but even its accomplishment:
(to be continued)
Notes
* “Kontakion for the Birth of the Theotokos,” in Kevin Lawrence, Apolitikia and Kontakia (Greensboro, NC: Dormition of the Theotokos Greek Orthodox Church, 1993, 1997), 128–29.
Our lives are marked by seasons and cycles, ebbs and flows and pendulum swings. Even our progressions are circular, spiraling around a line.
In August the earth hurtles toward equinox, the equanimity of darkness and light. The planet has traveled enough in its orbit that the mornings are laden with dimness and dew. The birds, triggered by the glimmering of dawn, are at this time of year in the midst of their singing during my morning prayers. When I get up, the world is still heavy with dark, heavy in the half-light of dawn. When I drive to work, I need the visor to shield my eyes from the risen sun.
The earth keeps spinning on its axis, the moon continues to orbit the earth, and these two, together with the other planets and the bodies within their influence, go on wheeling around the sun, the fixed point in all of this movement.
On September 1st, the church year begins, the cycle of feasts and fasts. On the eighth, we celebrate the first of the twelve major feasts—the Nativity of Mary, the Mother of God. The story goes that Mary’s parents, Joachim and Anna, were unable to conceive a child. In ancient Hebrew culture, this was a great disgrace, a sign of God’s displeasure, because it meant that Joachim’s line would die, that they could not through childbearing participate in the continuing work of creation, that they would not be able to bring the Messiah into the world—for certain, Israel’s promised deliverer would not come through them. Into their old age, these servants of God prayed for a child, but their prayers were not answered.
One day, Joachim went to the temple to make his offering and was turned away by the high priest, who reproached him for his lack of descendants and humiliated him by turning him away. Bitterly Joachim fled to the hills to sit in his despair and hide his shame. Praying there, he was visited by an angel, who at the same time appeared to Anna in their home in Jerusalem. The angel announced that Anna would bear a child who would be blessed by God, whose name would be known throughout the world. In her gratitude, Anna promised her child to God, and Joachim, more than a little uplifted, hurried home. They met at the city gate and embraced, full of joy.
And we rejoice. Out of the barrenness of the aged curse of brokenness and death comes life. With Mary’s birth, the womb foreordained to bear God—to contain the Uncontainable and make possible the union of God and man—enters the world. God’s incarnation, the basis of our faith, already is set in motion at her conception.
The year begins with so much promise. New clothes and school supplies, new classes. The approach of the autumn harvest. The beginning of sports seasons, Sunday school, book clubs and other groups. After a summer of recess and recreation, we welcome the return of routine and structure and purpose. Everything is fresh and new. And with the earliest hints of color in the trees and crispness in the air, with the blue skies and clear light of September, with the better rest that comes with cooler weather and earlier sunsets—with so much transformation in the air, it’s easy to believe that the birth of Mary, the Theotokos (Mother of God), as we sing in the kontakion hymn on the day of the feast, is not just the promise of goodness but even its accomplishment:
Your holy birth delivered Joachim and Anna from the reproach of childlessness
and delivered Adam and Eve from death’s corruption, O Pure One.
Thus freed from the stain of sin, we your people honor your birth, crying out to you:
“A woman thought barren brings forth the Theotokos, who nourishes Christ our Life.”*
(to be continued)
Notes
* “Kontakion for the Birth of the Theotokos,” in Kevin Lawrence, Apolitikia and Kontakia (Greensboro, NC: Dormition of the Theotokos Greek Orthodox Church, 1993, 1997), 128–29.
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Seasons and Cycles (1)
Our lives are marked by seasons and cycles, ebbs and flows and pendulum swings. Even our progressions are circular, spiraling around a line.
In August the earth hurtles toward equinox, the equanimity of darkness and light. The planet has traveled enough in its orbit that the mornings are laden with dimness and dew. The birds, triggered by the glimmering of dawn, are at this time of year in the midst of their singing during my morning prayers. When I get up, the world is still heavy with dark, heavy in the half-light of dawn. When I drive to work, I need the visor to shield my eyes from the risen sun.
The earth keeps spinning on its axis, the moon continues to orbit the earth, and these two, together with the other planets and the bodies within their influence, go on wheeling around the sun, the fixed point in all of this movement.
On September 1st, the church year begins, the cycle of feasts and fasts. On the eighth, we celebrate the Feast of the Nativity of Mary, the Mother of God.
(to be continued)
In August the earth hurtles toward equinox, the equanimity of darkness and light. The planet has traveled enough in its orbit that the mornings are laden with dimness and dew. The birds, triggered by the glimmering of dawn, are at this time of year in the midst of their singing during my morning prayers. When I get up, the world is still heavy with dark, heavy in the half-light of dawn. When I drive to work, I need the visor to shield my eyes from the risen sun.
The earth keeps spinning on its axis, the moon continues to orbit the earth, and these two, together with the other planets and the bodies within their influence, go on wheeling around the sun, the fixed point in all of this movement.
On September 1st, the church year begins, the cycle of feasts and fasts. On the eighth, we celebrate the Feast of the Nativity of Mary, the Mother of God.
(to be continued)
The Possibility of Wholeness
Finally the sun is beginning to lose its grip. No longer does it grope through the heavy curtains in our room, waking me before I have to get up; no longer does it juice my brain so late in the day I can’t get to sleep at a reasonable hour. I can feel we’re on the approach to equilibrium, the promise of decent rest.
Today, the first Saturday in August, I woke up feeling I’d had a good night’s sleep. When I walked to the road to pick up the newspaper, the sky already was the clearest blue, dotted with white clouds. All day long the air was perfect—hot but balmy, without a hint of humidity. All day long the sun gave off the purest light.
Something about this light is indescribable—how richly it draws out the colors of the trees and the grass and the sky, how sharply it defines everything, yet lacks harshness. The world seems transfigured by it, infused with rightness, suffused with the presence of Uncreated Light.
I felt right today—rested, relaxed. I had no pressing obligations, no stress. I soaked in the scenery on my drive to and from the rink, basking in the light. My legs felt limber when I skated my rest-day laps. Later, I got some writing done. I had a good conversation with my wife.
Days like today are rare—just the right amounts of rest and activity and light to lube the brain, just enough exertion to keep the body loose.
Days like today lead me to believe in the possibility of wholeness.
Today, the first Saturday in August, I woke up feeling I’d had a good night’s sleep. When I walked to the road to pick up the newspaper, the sky already was the clearest blue, dotted with white clouds. All day long the air was perfect—hot but balmy, without a hint of humidity. All day long the sun gave off the purest light.
Something about this light is indescribable—how richly it draws out the colors of the trees and the grass and the sky, how sharply it defines everything, yet lacks harshness. The world seems transfigured by it, infused with rightness, suffused with the presence of Uncreated Light.
I felt right today—rested, relaxed. I had no pressing obligations, no stress. I soaked in the scenery on my drive to and from the rink, basking in the light. My legs felt limber when I skated my rest-day laps. Later, I got some writing done. I had a good conversation with my wife.
Days like today are rare—just the right amounts of rest and activity and light to lube the brain, just enough exertion to keep the body loose.
Days like today lead me to believe in the possibility of wholeness.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Being in a Body
I love being in a body.
I love that we can perceive and appreciate beauty in the world. I love that we can enjoy what sustains us—the color and texture and savor of food. I love the intimacy of touch—an embrace, the heft of a sleeping baby, a pat on the back, caresses. I love the sound of the human voice singing, the sound of my children calling my name. I love the air’s buoyancy on a mild summer evening, its lushness after rain, its sharpness in my nose and lungs in the dead of winter. I love the beauty of an athlete’s body, the form of a beautiful woman. I love that beauty can be found in any form.
Bodies are capable of great betrayal. I saw a film about a man whose skin fell off at the slightest touch. All of his thirty-six years, most of his body was covered with blisters and open sores. To say that his life was filled with pain and suffering is a gross understatement. I read about a man whose life and career as a brilliant mathematician were destroyed by schizophrenia. He thought he saw patterns and hidden messages in newspaper articles. He saw people who didn’t exist. Late in his life something changed in his brain and he learned to cope with his illusions by ignoring them. I saw a show about a man whose tumors engulfed his face. He couldn’t see out of one eye. His voice was muffled, indistinct. He had to move masses of flesh away from his mouth in order to eat. He wasn’t what you’d call a social butterfly.
The Man Whose Skin Fell Off. A Beautiful Mind. The Man with No Face. The misery of some people’s lives because of their bodies is beyond comprehension.
I am amazed by the body’s intricate systems, the mysteries of the brain. I love that the brain works associatively as well as linearly. I love that the body can heal itself.
Some bodies age beyond their years, dying before their brains can mature.
I love those moments of consciousness between sleep and wakefulness, before the concerns of the day barge in. I love the feeling, when I get it, of having had a good night’s sleep.
Some brains never mature, foundering in the wake of their bodies.
I love the mild mania of a sunny afternoon, the calm of a rainy day.
Defect, disease, cancer, paralysis, death. Imbalance, disorder, psychosis, seizure, coma.
I’m lucky enough to be reasonably whole, burdened only by lesser forms of sleep and mood disorders. Though I rarely feel well rested, I’m relatively comfortable in my discomfort, damaged but functioning.
I love the sensation of human-generated speed, as on a bicycle or in skates. I love to sweat, to breathe deeply and hard, reveling in the power in my legs, pleased with the wind on my skin, the wind’s dull roaring in my ears. I love to be good at moving. I even love the pain of intense activity, sprinting through the burning in my legs, fighting to catch my breath on my hands and knees afterward.
More than anything else, I love the warmth and ease of muscles after exercise, the lush feeling of quiet that floods my body when I’ve showered and settle down to daydream and to rest. I love the euphoric wash of chemicals in my brain, the feeling of having been healed, cleansed.
I want never to be without a body. I dread getting old, slowly losing the ability to do things as well as I could, finally unable to do them at all. I hope with all of my being that the new bodies we’re promised in the afterlife are the bodies we’re in now, only healthy, whole, incorruptible, forever in the prime of life.
I love that we can perceive and appreciate beauty in the world. I love that we can enjoy what sustains us—the color and texture and savor of food. I love the intimacy of touch—an embrace, the heft of a sleeping baby, a pat on the back, caresses. I love the sound of the human voice singing, the sound of my children calling my name. I love the air’s buoyancy on a mild summer evening, its lushness after rain, its sharpness in my nose and lungs in the dead of winter. I love the beauty of an athlete’s body, the form of a beautiful woman. I love that beauty can be found in any form.
Bodies are capable of great betrayal. I saw a film about a man whose skin fell off at the slightest touch. All of his thirty-six years, most of his body was covered with blisters and open sores. To say that his life was filled with pain and suffering is a gross understatement. I read about a man whose life and career as a brilliant mathematician were destroyed by schizophrenia. He thought he saw patterns and hidden messages in newspaper articles. He saw people who didn’t exist. Late in his life something changed in his brain and he learned to cope with his illusions by ignoring them. I saw a show about a man whose tumors engulfed his face. He couldn’t see out of one eye. His voice was muffled, indistinct. He had to move masses of flesh away from his mouth in order to eat. He wasn’t what you’d call a social butterfly.
The Man Whose Skin Fell Off. A Beautiful Mind. The Man with No Face. The misery of some people’s lives because of their bodies is beyond comprehension.
I am amazed by the body’s intricate systems, the mysteries of the brain. I love that the brain works associatively as well as linearly. I love that the body can heal itself.
Some bodies age beyond their years, dying before their brains can mature.
I love those moments of consciousness between sleep and wakefulness, before the concerns of the day barge in. I love the feeling, when I get it, of having had a good night’s sleep.
Some brains never mature, foundering in the wake of their bodies.
I love the mild mania of a sunny afternoon, the calm of a rainy day.
Defect, disease, cancer, paralysis, death. Imbalance, disorder, psychosis, seizure, coma.
I’m lucky enough to be reasonably whole, burdened only by lesser forms of sleep and mood disorders. Though I rarely feel well rested, I’m relatively comfortable in my discomfort, damaged but functioning.
I love the sensation of human-generated speed, as on a bicycle or in skates. I love to sweat, to breathe deeply and hard, reveling in the power in my legs, pleased with the wind on my skin, the wind’s dull roaring in my ears. I love to be good at moving. I even love the pain of intense activity, sprinting through the burning in my legs, fighting to catch my breath on my hands and knees afterward.
More than anything else, I love the warmth and ease of muscles after exercise, the lush feeling of quiet that floods my body when I’ve showered and settle down to daydream and to rest. I love the euphoric wash of chemicals in my brain, the feeling of having been healed, cleansed.
I want never to be without a body. I dread getting old, slowly losing the ability to do things as well as I could, finally unable to do them at all. I hope with all of my being that the new bodies we’re promised in the afterlife are the bodies we’re in now, only healthy, whole, incorruptible, forever in the prime of life.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
