Contemplfiy NonRequired Practice - Quarantine Edition #4
Contemplify NonRequired Practice | Quarantine Edition #4
Contemplative Friend,
I am on the front porch with a full mug of coffee and lazy foresight. My first sip tells me that it is too late in the day for this final cup. As I survey the leaves bristling in the spring wind, the laughter of my wife and children from inside the house reaches me outside. My attention is not too late to notice that this moment is tinged with grace. A charge of reverence runs through me and demands a toast. I raise my mug to the moon but opt for a silent toast instead. I have offered too many words lately, the laughter and the leaves praise this world loudly enough. Today is day 28 of our family's quarantine. A full cycle of the moon. I wonder, how many new moons will we see in this confinement?
The Houdini moon is overhead, carefully presenting now but already in the act of disappearance. Remembering her movements, I call the kids out to bid goodnight to the moon. I watch them blow kisses, wave, and wish her a restful slumber.
This past full moon I turned into a werewolf. Not a real one like Teen Wolf, but a hairy persona of howling anxiety. I could not shake it. On my face I wore the stress of not ‘doing’ and ‘being’ enough for my family or work. On my skin I felt fear for my friends working in healthcare, concern for my loved ones at all risk levels, injustice for those on the margins, and anger towards this (insert curse word of choice) disease that had just taken John Prine. Then at 2 am my daughter woke me after a harrowing nightmare of her own. The howling anxiety trailed me into her room. I rubbed her back and muttered “Lord, have mercy” again and again. She fell asleep quickly, but when did I fall asleep? Was it after a few hundred prayers or a few thousand? I could not say for certain.
When I woke in the morning the werewolf was gone. It was just me in all of my humanity. A peace emerged upon realizing that my response to these times is as cyclical as la luna. I wax between peaceful, joyful, fretful, and then wane between anxious, frustrated, and a slaphappy glee. I am not battling this process, but allowing each subtle phase to have its moment. Even the sun's spotlight on the moon yellows but a portion while she hangs in there with all of her wholeness. The phases of the moon and the phases of me are all impermanent, in transition, and in Christ. I blow each phase a kiss, a wave, and wish them a restful slumber until they return.
In this Easter's waning gibbous,the words of Symeon the New Theologian have become carnal.
"We wake up inside Christ’s body
Where all our body all over,
Every most hidden part of it,
Is realized in joy as Christ,
And Christ makes us utterly real.
And everything that is hurt, everything
That seemed to us dark, harsh, shameful,
Maimed, ugly, irreparably damaged
Is in Christ transformed.
And in Christ, recognized as whole, as lovely,
And radiant in Christ's light,
We awaken as the beloved
In every last part of our body."
(Hymn 15, Symeon the New Theologian, h/t to Mike)
Whether this finds you waking, waxing, or waning, I offer a few more practices for a contemplative approach to quarantined life in uncertain times.
The Virus Doesn’t Know Race Matters
Each and every person is holding a candle for their loved one’s well being as the corona virus amps up its game. Whatever community you may have your roots in, the numbers of infection and deaths related to the coranavirus in communities of color is devastating. In many of these communities health care support was already lacking and the pandemic is revealing the human cost of this disinterest. Read the excerpt below from Ibram X. Kendi’s article ‘What the Racial Data Show‘…
“In Michigan, black Americans comprise 14.1 percent of the state population, but an ungodly 40 percent of coronavirus deaths. In Washtenaw County, home to Ann Arbor, 48 percent of residents hospitalized with the coronavirus are black, though black people make up only 11 percent of the county. In Illinois, the infection rate among black Americans is twice their percentage of the state population. In North Carolina’s Mecklenburg County, which includes Charlotte, black people comprise 32.9 percent of the residents, but 43.9 of the confirmed coronavirus cases, as of March 30. In Milwaukee, black Americans make up 26 percent of the county, but nearly half of the infections and a maddening 81 percent of deaths as of Friday….Sometimes racial data tell us something we don’t know. Other times we need racial data to confirm something we already seem to know.” Lord have mercy. Lord get us off our asses to support our brothers and sisters. Take action and read the whole article here.
God’s Favorite Songwriter
We lost John Prine to the coronavirus. It felt like Popeye died. Popeye can’t die, he’s Popeye! John Prine held a larger-than-life songwriting gift in tandem with his Midwestern humility. An artist of mythical status and yet he also felt like he might be your next door neighbor. Each song and story relayed “I am what I am.” Prine was a figure of understated strength, humor, and a shirt pocket full of wisdom. Music is sometimes the only nourishment I need and often have I reached for the kitchen music of John Prine. If he was a common player on your stereo, I share your grief. If his songs never graced your ears before, I envy your discovery. Listen to his entire catalog, but given his recent exit start with ‘When I Get to Heaven'.
Bring in the Poets
Reading poetry is a steadying practice. I tend to stay away from poets I should read or those engraved in the pantheon of impossible to understand. I read the poetry that wakes me up. I know there are poets I am supposed to like because they got their street cred on pretentious avenue. Alas, I am not evolved enough to value their contribution. I hope that you have a poet or two that sing outside the bedroom window of your heart. If not, I recommend trying out the podcast ‘Poetry Off the Shelf‘ by the Poetry Foundation. It is an easy way to peruse a whole variety of poets to enlarge your days. Find your poets, find your people.
(When in doubt I read Mary Oliver, Wendell Berry, Teddy Macker, Chris Dombrowski, Joy Harjo, Jericho Brown, Jim Harrison, Naomi Shihab Nye, Todd Davis, and Maurice Manning.)
May this find you with a silent toast spilling from your lips and a toothy smile underneath a moon hung above. Go ahead, tell her all of your worries, she has heard them all before.
En Christo,
Paul
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P.P.S. The daily postings to kindle the examined life in a quarantined world are still being tacked to the cork board at Quarantined Qontemplative.