I sit on a hill across from Gethsemani, watching Brother Son traipse through the clouds, heading toward the horizon. There’s a peacefulness here, broken only by the occasional car moaning down Rt. 247. A summer haze coats the land. Two fellow retreatants wander down a road toward some distant woods a good distance from the abbey. I’ll get there myself before my time here is gone. But tonight is for stillness.
I can already feel the rhythm of my life slowing down, meandering where it used to scurry, patient instead of anxious, peaceful instead of worried. It’s a Wendell Berry scene, complete with abandoned barns, stalking cats, mirthful crickets and distant barks. If only the cars would stop driving by.
I easily see myself living this life – the daily prayers, the singing, the life of silence and solitude, waking every morning with no agenda but to worship my Father. And I know the journey is to seek that life in my own, to see the normal rhythms of my life as my worship, to seek, not the removal of distractions, but God hiding within them.
The suns final light just slipped behind the trees and soon the day will give way to the stars. I plan on staying here long enough to see the exchange.
I think one of the hardest things for me to give up were I to seek this lifestyle (and I’m not seriously considering it for those who might wonder), would be the company of women. Not the sexual side – I’ve gone this long, what’s another 36 years? – but actual friendship with the fairer sex. I’ve not had many deep male friendships, at least none as close as my female ones. I’ve naturally gravitated toward the feminine. I’m more easily annoyed by my male friends, probably because I more readily recognize in them the characteristics I despise about myself. Don’t get me wrong – it’s not that I loathe being a man and wish I were a woman. My list of reasons I’m glad I’m not a woman is infinitely longer than why I don’t like being a man. But my personality is far more feminine than masculine, at least as far as stereotypical traits go.
No stars yet. Methinks the haze is keeping them at bay for now.
One of my hopes for this week is to get a clear picture of what this new house church should look like. I have these vague ideas I’d like to see crystallize. The vision is to create a community using liturgy and tradition to shape that community, focusing on the disciplines to bind us together and set us loose on the world around us. I want to spend time reading Willard’s The Great Omission which I’ve brought with me. The Divine Conspiracy rocked my world what, eight years ago? Geesh. Here’s hoping the same happens again.
Light is fading and I think I’m going to lie down and watch the stars descend. The sky’s a smudged pastel and I’m craving the darkness. Night. Æ
waiting for a star
brilliantly flinging itself
across the darkness
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