kevin and the otter

s. kevin of glendalough is probably most famous for letting a blackbird which began to build her nest in his hand, outstretched in prayer, finish the nest and lay her eggs, hatch them and raise her chicks.  but there are other stories about kevin and animals as well.  one about him and an otter seems particularly helpful to me in my new home by the ocean and the many little creeks and river that join her.

kevin was known for meditating while standing  in the water.  i'm not quite so studly as he, so i tend to sit just at the edge of the water.  one of his favourite books was a collection of writings of holy men.  i have a few of those myself.  one day he dropped his book in the water.  an otter is said to have recovered it for him, and when he opened it, he found that not one word was blurred.

often this story is read (or dismissed) as a pious legend.  either one thinks it true and wondrous, or impossible and credulous.  but i believe there is another way to read the story, one which gives us deeper insight perhaps into the relationship kevin enjoyed with the rest of the animated world.  it is a way that reminds me also of a story about s. anthony of the desert.  most of the desert monks had scrolls of holy writings, which they kept on the shelves of their windows.  a visitor to anthony noticed no scrolls, and asked the old man where his scrolls were.  anthony replied that to the one who has eyes to see, all creation is a holy scroll.

perhaps what kevin found in the gift of the otter was not literally the book he had dropped, but the spirit of the holy, in the sense that the letter kills and the spirit gives life.  it encourages me to spend more time listening to the water and her creatures and less time looking at books.

another view of celtic spirituality: a mist-filled path

i didn't mean to dismiss all of the celtic revival folks with my last post; after all, i am trying to be one of them, only to recognize that what we so easily call 'celtic spirituality' is much more complex and unknown and in some ways probably repulsive to us than we often recognize.

so, to refresh my memory with some of the ideas and imagery that made 'celtic spirituality' so attractive to me many years ago, i am also re-reading frank maceowen's the mist-filled path.  it is probably more useful to me and others who today would seek to recover the sort of connexion to the world(s) that marked what we call 'celtic spirituality' than monastic rules.  like myself, maceowen is a southern boy who grew up in the 'bible belt' but who also had the good fortune to have a father whose  'religion' happened mostly in the woods.  and, of course, here in the northwest, mists are almost unavoidable.

one of the things that separates maceowen's method from that of the monks who, at least according to the rules collected by o maidan, filled their days with constant repetition of psalms, is the quiet.  maceowen reminds us of the importance, in j. philip newell's words, listening for the heartbeat of god. 

the quiet is a gift of the long dark hours of winter, and of the mists.  pray that i will have the grace to listen during these long beautiful hours of samhain.

back online: celtic monasticism

it's a bit odd, perhaps, after thinking eureka springs would be the place of my resurrection, that i have moved back  to the pacific northwest, to the olympic peninsula.  why should i do such a thing?  partly because i'm a wimp:  the winters have been too cold and the summers too hot the past two years in arkansas for me to wander in the wilds.  partly because i was too comfortable:  my little apartment there was so comfortable, with running hot and cold water, heating and airconditioning, and 3,000 books, that i had little incentive to wander in the wilds.  partly because i missed the ocean:  as beautiful as the ozarks are, there are no waves crashing on the rocks.

and so here i am, in a climate that is wet and cool, but seldom extreme, hauling water, with less than a dozen books--a cheat, because i have the internet--a short walk from the straight of juan de fuca.

i am living, at least for a while, in a camper under a big fir tree.  there are all sorts of fruit trees nearby, and berries.  it is a beautiful walk of about two miles to the nearest source of oats and tea and peanut butter.  it seems a start with possibilities.  but i have been reading uinseann o maidin's the celtic monk, and it makes me wonder whether there's any relationship much between my life and celtic monasticism at all.

in a very basic sense, my maternal grandmother lived a live of celtic monasticism.  she wa humble, hospitable, ate little, prayed many psalms each day, never spoke ill of anyone.   and she did such things with much more stability than i have, never living more than twenty miles from her place of birth.

at the same time, the lives described by the celtic monastic rules is much more harsh than anything i live, and more harsh than that of my grandmother, at least after the depression.  and it is a far cry from the cozy celtic christianity that is so glibly described in a huge popular genre of books and videos.  and, i have no community of support.  i have a community that supports me, but that's just because i'm a quaint old man, a sort of semi-ornamental yard gnome.  but no one participates in any sort of similar practices to mine. 

so, it makes me wonder why i feel the need, why so many of us feel the need, to somehow connect what we're doing with what ss. kevin and aidan and kenny and cuthbert and chad did.  is it because the spirit of the current age is so omnipresent that we need support in opposing it?  do we doubt the feelings within our heart that tell us that real life experiences the beginning of the rain at 3:00 a.m., and the calling of the tits and buntings in the apple tree's by julie's kitchen window? 

so, although i am not at all sure that what i'm doing is related to celtic monasticism at all, i am enjoying it.  the air today is full of the ocean, and it's that wonderful temperature--47 degrees f-- when one can't wear the wrong clothing, unless one is afraid of a bit of dampness.  so i'm going to the beach to pretend at least that i'm a descendent in a way of cuthbert, hoping to see an otter who might be a descendent of one of his friends

passionate wandering

several years ago, i read a book by elizabeth margaret rees, , celtic saints:  passionate wanderers.  it describes, rather obviously, the wanderings of celtic saints, mostly towards the end of the first millenium a. d.  i have re-read it several times, or at least fondled it, looking at the paths and traces of those who went out looking to see what the holy one had done.  and i have done a little  moderate wandering myself.

but i had convinced myself that i had settled into my little glass observatory, much like merlin, looking out on the great void in the land of lime stone and loblolly pine that is the ozarks.  my plumbline had indeed fallen in a fortunate place.

ah, it was not so.  i find myself wandering again, as passionately as ever, as overwhelmed by the beauty of what the holy one has done as ever, and more appalled by how we have treated that good creation than ever.  i am not nor have i ever been a calvinist, but it is easy for me to find in my trip so far evidence not only for original sin but for total depravity.  faith is the evidence of things unseen, and the goodness of human beings requires a lot of faith.  of course there are individual exceptions, but the effect of the whole is pretty horrible to behold.

and so i wander, squinting to see the eighth day of creation through the weekend of football and markets of tie-dyed tee shirts and organic trinkets.  and, if i am quiet, it is there.  the kingdom of heaven is at hand.  i feel like emily in our town, wishing we could all see the streams of glory.

the wandering through the passions is easy.  pray it will bring me closer to saintliness.  it's a long and straight road.

repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand

john wesley used to say that one should preach until one heard himself. i'm trying to listen to what i'm saying. so, after the last post, on the temptations of s. dominic, i have sold my book cases, taken several piles of books hither and yon, and a bag of stuff to the animal shelter thrift store, in memory of my little grey squirrel, who seems to have died from the heat.

and i am off to the wilds again. well, soon, at the first of september. there are still many books and a few other things to disperse. and, somewhat surprisingly, i am off to the coast. i really miss the ocean, the tides, the smells. perhaps i can find some sea otters who will befriend me. i have stayed here in the hills far longer than the two weeks i had expected. with occasional interruptions, it's been more than six years now. every other time i have started to leave, i have been constrained. but now it seems freeing. i'm sure i don't know what's in store next. i am packing light. pray that i am ready.
perhaps i will really build a coracle.

the temptations of s. dominic

i well remember when i first began to discover the differences between the franciscans and the dominicans. i was in a sort of 'franciscan period,' all excited about lady poverty and giving away my stuff. there was even a day when i had a sort of epiphany, or an e-pie-phany, if such a horrible pun may be excused. i was living in bellingham, had about $3.00, and wanted a piece of berry pie. (one can tell this was a while ago, when a piece of pie cost still less than $3.00.) to reach the pie store, however, i would need to walk past a group of panhandlers, who would all ask me for money, and i felt honour-bound to give it to them. but a voice from heaven, as it were, proclaimed that the holy one loved even me, and that i might from time to time have a piece of blackberry pie, too. and so i did. st. francis would have kicked me out of the hut for days.

francis of course was also noticeably anti-bookish; no psalters allowed for his little brothers. (obviously the franciscans did not continue that tradition.) even then i had a psalter. indeed, i had three books. then i read a bit about s. dominic, and found that he not only allowed the brothers of his order to have books, but encouraged them to stay up late at night and read. so my franciscan poverty became a dominican poverty. in rich fat america, it's easy to find books for free, of for less than a piece of pie. there were always several free boxes in bellingham. now that i live in the ozarks, there's the hillspeak pass along program, with about 30,000 free books.

so, about 2,000 books later, i find that i am so deep in the poverty of s. dominic that it's hard to see over it. it's a very enjoyable sort of poverty, but it really seems more to be an indulgence in temptation than poverty.

now if of course know that these books aren't 'mine' and i share them, and give them away, and pass them along. but i am no longer free. now, i must provide shelter for hundreds and hundreds of books that i think of as relics, not only in the sense that they contain the thoughts of many wonderful men and women who put their hearts and minds into the words saved on all these printed pages, but also because they almost all of them have belonged to and been read by people before me. one can feel the thoughts and prayers of those who have read them before. they are an important part of my connection to the communion of saints.

and yet. and yet i know that mies van der rohe was right: less is more. st. francis was right: we don't live in houses. st. dominic's poverty is good for some, but for me it mostly a temptation for more pie, and the excuse to indulge in eating. the good news is always the same. repent, for the kingdom of heaven is at hand. perhaps never has it been said better than by the indigo girls:

give me that old time religion

so, i left my boat on the seashore, and entered the woods to learn what the wind words were saying.  what i learned that is most important, in my humble experience, is that we don't need a new monasticism.  if it's monasticism, it ain't new.  if it's new, it ain't monasticism.  i have many friends who are fond of reading alisdair macintyre and saying that we need a new s. benedict, and who then do some sort of neo-monastic 'practice' in the midst of--or more often at the ends of--their day jobs.  that ain't monasticism.  monasticism is being single-eyed.  it is seeking the holy one before all else.

i met the dean of a prominent seminary recently who, noticing my black clothes and weird hair, said politely, 'what do you do?'  i said, 'i attempt to be an orthodox monk.'  he said, understandably, 'how is that?  either you're a monk or you're not, right?'  i said 'ah, if only it were so easy:  i have taken vows and accepted the blessing of my archbishop for such an undertaking, but sometimes--often--i break my vows and fail to live up to that blessing.  so, my life is an attempt at monkhood.' 

but mostly it has been a fortunate attempt, in that i no longer am trying to serve two masters, being in this  Aión by day and in the AiónAiónios by morning and evening.  (and i use the greek word that we so often translate as 'world' and 'even and ever' because i think those are misleading translations, leading among other mistakes, to the contempt of the κόσμος.
and it has been entirely a work of grace that has led me to realize the futility of life in this Aión, grace that came from praying the psalter.  these words of the holy one, which i repeat day after day, slowly become my own words, and i am caught.  like jeremiah i am seduced.  like peter i have no one else to whom to go.

what the psalms say, ah, is many things.  but for the children playing i the school yard of this generation, they seem to be saying that it is death to be relevant to a 'culture' which spends most of its time and money producing death;  that it is insane to worship youth, that most fleeting of conditions;  that the goal we should have is not to be relevant to the 'culture' of this age but to be relevant to the kingdom of god.

entire the old monasticism, the old religion.  our time is, despite what it's cleverest marketers tell us, is not unique.  it is once again--still--like the age of noah--except perhaps there is less marriage and giving in marriage, with facebook relationships taking over that custom.  it is like the time that s. anthony went into the wilderness, to wrestle with his daemons.  he did nothing to be relevant to his time.  rather he fled the petty smallness of his time to live in eternity.  it is like the time s. seraphim went into the woods to pray, standing and kneeling on a rock praying to the mother of god until he was filled with the glory of the same holy one who had filled her womb.

and so, despite the popularity of the monasticism-one-follows-with-twitter, or spiritual practices on cd's to listen to while commuting, or the guidance of those who talk on television about the wonders of 'interspirituality,' which seems to be the spiritual equivalence of having no city in which to dwell, but living in a 757's 'interurbanity,' go to your room and pray.  go to your room and pray.

'seek him that made pleiades and orion, that turneth deep darkness into the morning, and darkeneth the day into night; that calleth for the waters of the sea, and poureth them out upon the face of the earth:  the lord is his name.'  (amos 5:8)  and pray, brothers and sisters, for me, a sinful man seeking to be a monk.