Pilgrimage withdrawal symptoms

It feels like an age since I last went on a good long pilgrimage. I just read about a friend who is setting off to walk the Via Francigena. That's Canterbury to Rome. It takes about 85 days if you do not stop. I am, admit it, very jealous. I would give anything to have the time, money and opportunity to pack my bag and hit the road.

I have made a nod to pilgrimage this year. I walked the Student Cross pilgrimage to Walsingham for Easter. There a several routes, or legs, which each approach Walsingham to meet on Good Friday. I was with Essex leg, and our journey was about 125 miles. For me this pilgrimage was a different type of experience to the Camino de Santiago because I traveled with a group. Also, we were carrying a life sized cross which was very heavy. The journey was marked by the pace of the group, sometimes this was faster than I liked, and sometimes this was slower than would have been ideal, but it was the group which mattered most. That was a learning experience for me, I have never walked like that before. On the camino I would meander along like a snail some days, and take off into the hills with an admirable pace on others, it all depended on my mood. Sometimes I would meander off the route altogether to go and take a look at something that distracted my attention. Learning to walk with others was quite a humbling, but rewarding experience. I loved being out all day, and I enjoyed the camaraderie of chit chat along the route. I loved to watch the different relationships between pilgrims unfold and develop as we went along, old friends catching up, new friendships forming. Sometimes there were tensions between people that needed to be resolved; sometimes people shared so much with another it was truly touching. But, I am not naturally gifted at walking with others. I spend too much time on the outside looking in, get distracted by my own rambling thoughts and retreat into the cavernous recesses of my mind.

I planned but did not go to Santiago de Compostela last year. I planned to go again this year, but again I will not go. This makes me sad. I have the freedom to just pack my bags and head off, but I do not have it. That is the worse thing about being your own boss and doing your own work. The responsibility to just get on with it leaves very few opportunities to take a month off for walking across Spain. And, I definitely do not have the money. Not that that should stop me, pilgrims have always been poor. So, I am left with the memories of pilgrimage to keep me happy. And what great memories they are. The best thing about pilgrimage is that it is a great leap into the unknown, and you do not know what is going to happen. Taking that leap is always completely life changing. To all that are brave enough to do it I give my utmost respect.

Bookish Smells (a reprise)

I found this from the old blog archive today, and went to check on the smells. They haven't changed to much actually. Dorothy Day, The Long Loneliness, smells of cigarette smoke. Herbert McCabe, Law, Love and Language, smells of wax.

I got a book I have been waiting a long time for today. It has been shipped especially from India for me. Whenever I buy new books the first thing I do is smell them. The time has long since past that I could afford to buy many books first hand, and so mostly I collect second hand publications in good condition. The best thing about these books, when they first arrive is their smell. Paper takes on the odour of its surroundings very quickly, and mixes it with a dusty, musty smell all of its own. Weirdly, I often organize my bookshelf by smell - musty on the left, dusty on the right, smells of persil in the middle, hippy shop that burnt incense at the top, was left out in the rain and then dried on radiator at the bottom. There is a special place on my bookshelf for Adam Bede (George Eliott), which was kept in the kitchen of a student flat full of heavy drinking, drug taking, under graduate smokers (all my friends), got Vimto spilled on it, was dried out in the microwave and then hung out the window in Aigburth, Liverpool on fireworks night. It has a unique smell of its own.

Anyway, the book I got today, Under Satan's Sun - Georges Bernanos, smells. There is an undertone of mothballs, which I haven't smelt since I was a child. Frankincense, possibly, and something much more chemical, like a newly opened jar of paint. I am not sure where it will go on the shelf. The Intimate Merton smells of a hot pavement in the city just after a summer storm. I 'liberated' Jesus the Liberator (Jon Sobrino) from school when I was 17, and it smells of classroom. Perhaps I should bring it back? Harry Potter y la piedra filosofal (J K Rowling), was the first book I bought in Salamanca, Spain and I walked around the city gardens with it for weeks trying to read in a language I hadn't learnt yet. It has crushed jasmine in it from my favourite walled hideaway courtyard in the shadow of the Cathedral. Tom Sawyer (Samuel Clemens) belonged to my dad, he got it for Christmas in 1948. It smells of wood, as though the paper still hankers after the branches it was cut from. I suppose paper refinement was different back then.

I guess the way you organise your bookshelf is personal. I read in The Guardian once about a woman who organised her books according to which books would 'get on' with each other. John Donne next to DH Lawrence because their conversations would be interesting. Leave Jane Austen away from Henry Fielding because he would bully her. For this the books have to be alive. I am sticking to my system, smells and size. I like the place to look neat, after all.

Theological Joke

WARNING: By definition theological jokes are not funny. This one comes to me by way of my good friend Angharad and her rather marvelous blog. I like it, but then again that is probably another sign of its definite unfunniness. No laughs here. None. :)

A man dies and goes to heaven. Of course, St. Peter meets him at the pearly gates. St. Peter says, "Here's how it works. You need 100 points to make it into heaven. You tell me all the good things you've done, and I give you a certain number of points for each item, depending on how good it was. When you reach 100 points, you get in."

"Okay," the man says, "I was married to the same woman for 50 years and never cheated on her, even in my heart."

"That's wonderful," says St. Peter, "that's worth three points!"

"Three points?" he says. "Well, I attended church all my life and supported its ministry with my tithe and service."

"Terrific!" says St. Peter, "that's certainly worth a point."

"One point? Golly. How about this: I started a soup kitchen in my city and worked in a shelter for homeless veterans."

"Fantastic, that's good for two more points," he says.

"TWO POINTS!!" the man cries, "At this rate the only way I get into heaven is by the grace of God!"

"Come on in!"St Peter replies with a grin.

The Happiness Project

This book looks good, a bit self - helpy for me perhaps, but I am no snob. Gretchen Rubin claims that St. Therese of Liseux is her inspiration, although she attaches herself to no particular religious tradition. She nicks JP XXIII's list of 'Just for today I will....' (known as the daily decalogue of John XXIII), and suggests it is a good way to go. Have you read that? It is on the Vatican website, about halfway down. Actually, I will publish it over on Tumblr as a poetic piece. Look here, if you are interested.

Gretchen Rubin had an epiphany one rainy afternoon in the unlikeliest of places: a city bus. The days are long, but the years are short, she realised. Time is passing, and I'm not focusing enough on the things that really matter. In that moment, she decided to dedicate a year to her happiness project. In this lively and compelling account of that year, Rubin carves out her place alongside the authors of bestselling memoirs such as "Julie and Julia", "The Year of Living Biblically", and "Eat, Pray, Love". With humour and insight, she chronicles her adventures during the twelve months she spent test-driving the wisdom of the ages, current scientific research, and lessons from popular culture about how to be happier. Rubin didn't have the option to uproot herself, nor did she really want to; instead she focused on improving her life as it was. Each month she tackled a new set of resolutions: give proofs of love, ask for help, find more fun, keep a gratitude notebook, forget about results. She immersed herself in principles set forth by all manner of experts, from Epicurus to Thoreau to Oprah to Martin Seligman to the Dalai Lama to see what worked for her - and what didn't. Her conclusions are sometimes surprising - she finds that money can buy happiness, when spent wisely; that novelty and challenge are powerful sources of happiness; that 'treating' yourself can make you feel worse; that venting bad feelings doesn't relieve them; and, that the very smallest of changes can make the biggest difference - and they range from the practical to the profound. Written with charm and wit, "The Happiness Project" is illuminating yet entertaining, thought-provoking yet compulsively readable. Gretchen Rubin's passion for her subject jumps off the page, and reading just a few chapters of this book will inspire you to start your own happiness project.

The Long Loneliness - Dorothy Day

The introduction of this book is so atmospheric, from a place which reaches backwards in time. To me it was beautiful, like a film. I share it here only to hope that others will find it beautiful too. It illustrates a deeply Catholic scene, but I think the mystic of it all could appeal to anyone - especially those interested in creating visual images in their mind's eye. I bought this book on Amazon for £1.20. Bargain.

Confession

When you go to confession on a Saturday night, you go into a warm, dimly lit vastness, with a smell of wax and incense in the air, the smell of burning candles, and if it is a hot summer night there is the sound of the great electric fan, and the noise of the streets coming in to emphasize the stillness. There is another sound too, beside that of the quiet movements of people from pew to confession to altar rail; there is the sliding of the shutters of the little window between you and the priest in his 'box'.

Some confessionals are large and roomy - plenty of space for the knees, and breathing space in the thick darkness that seems to pulse with your own heart. In some poor churches, many of the ledges are narrow and worn, so that your knees almost slip off the kneeling bench, and your feet protrude outside the curtain which shields you from the others who are waiting. Some churches have netting, or screens, between you and the priest and you can see the outline of his face inclined toward you, quiet, impersonal, patient. Some have a piece of material covering the screen, so you can see nothing. Some priests leave their lights on in their boxes so that they can read their breviaries between confessions. The light does not bother you of that piece of material is there so that you cannot see, or be seen, but if it is only a grating so that he can see your face, it is embarrassing and you do not go back to that priest again.

Day continues to make some brilliant observations about the sacrament of reconciliation. They are of their time; I do not know what she would make of the face-to-face option preferred in many parishes today! For the record I have never come across a confessional with a shutter - it is always in the movies, I know - I guess I just think it must be American? This book is great, an account of Dorothy Day's remarkable life in her own words, everything from the difficulties of raising her daughter by herself, to the challenges of living out a vocation for the poor with the poor. Inspiring stuff.

My way, God's way

A short advert for a blog called My Way, God's way by two brothers in the Dominican order, Peter and Isidore Clarke OP. Their reflections on the world, religious life and life in general are very cool. With one of them based in Leicester and the other in Grenada, the blog also has the flavour of family communication, which I like - the personal sharing of daily lives, the you'll never guess what has happened to me! Well worth your time.

Between two: a beginning and an end

The Words

I want the words to light on your shoulder

like a hand: touch but not take hold.

You understand they are no more than a gesture

between us and I have tuned my voice so low

no one else shall hear them: they are just for you.

Do not mistake them for intimacy however.

We are a long way off still - we have

a long way to go - the words may contain

an immoderate danger: words are so dangerous.

But if we are careful, if we do not make trouble

between us we shall learn to give them a name.

grey gowrie

In the beginning was the Word...

So, my friend Tracey quoted Ernest Hemingway recently. He said: 'All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence you know.' This is the sort of sentence that strikes me as a challenge. It gets me thinking. A true sentence about what? About life? About others? About me?

There are many true sentences out there, not all of them meaningful. To me the sentence, 'All bachelors are men', is true, but not meaningful. I do not think that is what Ernest meant when he said 'true'. Truth is more than clever tricks and the recitation of facts, it has to mean something, and for it to mean something powerful to another, it needs to freely give something of myself to those who hear it.

Raimond Gaita, the Australian philosopher, argues that we only see someone as they really are when we see them in the light of those who love them. The same is true of all things, we only really appreciate their value when we see for ourselves the passion they can excite in others.

Timothy Radcliffe OP associates truthfulness with language that helps people to flourish, develop and grow; falsehood with words that belittle, denigrate and undermine. Truthfulness is speaking in the light of love, desiring the good of another.

Language is not an individual phenomenon, it belongs to the community, and not to the individual. Herbert McCabe OP said that. People are born into language, they have to learn to use it, and continue learning its nuances all their life. Different communities use language differently, we speak and write differently for different audiences. I wouldn't speak to my friends as I would to my teachers, or to my family as I would to colleagues. The words we use depend upon our relationships with those to whom we speak.

The truest sentence I know would have to be spoken in the light of love; it would need to help those who hear it, and myself as speaker, to flourish and grow becoming who we are truly meant to be together; and, what it expressed would have been, be, or become, an integral part of the community to which it was spoken. What is it though? A challenge certainly. Perhaps it is a secret. I will seek it.

Here is my starting point, it is traditional.....

In the beginning was the Word: the Word was with God and the Word was God.

Patterns of uncertainty

I have lived with patterns of uncertainty about my future for many years, but the last three in particular, have been dominated by the knowledge that my task for next year is unknown. My awareness of this reality comes in waves. Sometimes I do not think of it at all, I take each day as it comes. At other times, it haunts me and I long for clarity. Most of the time, I hit a merry medium between these too and do my best to achieve what I can for the future in the present moment I am living.

This year, and more precisely these coming weeks, the sense of uncertainty about my future is escalating, and perhaps because decisions will have to be made soon, and actions must be taken to decide how best to proceed, I am becoming more stubborn in my attitude of hope.

For those not in the know, I am doing a DPhil in Theology at the University of Oxford. My main thesis is to suggest that solidarity, as an attitude and way of living is a fundamental part of communicating truthfully. Relationships with others are integral to how we communicate with each other. For these reasons, to appreciate another through the eyes of love is to see them truly, for, religiously speaking, it was in the eyes of love that they were created. So far so good, but to complicate matters, my thesis seeks to to suggest that speaking truthfully is an obligation of journalistic practice. It attempts to move religious concepts into what is known as the 'secular forum'. I use the philosophy of Alastair MacIntyre to speak about a 'confused' conception of what it means to be truthful in journalistic practice; argue that journalism is an expression of human community, all human activity is aimed towards achieving a social good, and that the good of social communication, viz. newspapers, is functional societal relationships. For this reason truth telling has remained the predominant passion of journalism for centuries. For journalism to speak truthfully about the societies it observes it needs to use fraternal language, language which is creative rather than destructive, which looks at the relationship of all people to each other and sees each as equal, which expresses rather than asserts, which promotes the integral development of all.

Well, that was a short run through. Anyhow, thus far my project remains 'unfunded'. This means that for the last two years I have met my financial obligations in a rather hand to mouth manner, taking jobs where I can to pay fees, bills and find food and wine! Fortunately, Oxford is quite a good place to live this kind of lifestyle, and by taking teaching where I can, I survive happily. As with last year though, this year I face a new round of uncertainty about the future. Firstly, I must pass a set of exams in order to continue with my work. Then, if I am fortunate to succeed through that hurdle, I must magic out of thin air the finances needed for another year. By a miracle the last academic year worked out well, and by God's grace the next one might still be to come. However, just at the moment, the future is, as ever, dark. If I fail my exams, or cannot continue financially, I will be looking for a job by July.

The patterns of uncertainty that mark life, however, teach me some things about how to approach such situations. People frequently call me an optimist, but I reject that label. Optimism would imply that I expect certain things to turn out for the best, exam results, money, somewhere to live, etc. Hope is different. Hope looks at the future and considers that all of the future, and there is a lot of it, is in God's hands. The minutiae of this moment may not be clear to me yet, but perhaps one day it will. In the meantime, the best I can do is trust that divine hands are good hands and look toward the future without the need to know exactly what it looks like. And I guess that is what to be hopeful about the future in the face of uncertainty means for me. It does not change what I would like to do next year, for I aspire to complete my project; but, it does leave me open to the suggestion that if things do not go my way, turning to take a new direction is not a turn towards the past. It is but a new way forward, with horizons different from the ones I thought were there before. And what, after all is said and done, is so bad about a change of scenery?

Some would argue that such a response to uncertainty is passive, fatalist even. But, I think that is a mistake. I am not passive, but actively participate in the steps that must be taken towards the future, even if they are in darkness. I am not afraid of the dark, and have always been blessed with the gift of knowing that there is light at the end of the tunnel. Onwards.

Lazy Dayz

I am not someone who has very many lazy days. Today was one of them. The last time I remember staying in bed for so long I was sleeping around my friend Caroline's house. It was a girls weekend, and we had had a fine night talking, playing games and chatting. I was sleeping in Caroline's huge double bed, sharing with her. In the morning I was dead to the world. I could vaguely hear the sounds of friends moving around the house, preparing breakfast, laughing and talking; but, I was still in dreamland. I dreamt that Ric, Caroline's partner, had come home and was wanting to have a snooze, waiting for me to get up. But, I did not want to get up. I dreamt all my friends had gone, and I was still sleeping. Caroline and Ric were downstairs, waiting to move on with their weekend. In reality of course, all my friends were still there and Ric was still away, and even if he had been home, he would not have minded me sleeping. When I finally did make in down the stairs in my PJ's, sometime around 11am, everyone was still there and happy to see me well, rested.

Today I was at home in my flat. My alarm went off as usual about 7am. I turned it off, rolled over and fell straight back into dreams. I love drifting in and out of dream world in the morning, it is a luxury we rarely allow ourselves. And, quite often we feel bad about the time we take out to relax, stay still, sleep, rest. I stayed in bed today, and then read a book. I love drifting in and out of dreamworlds with the passages from novels still drifting around my head, it creates such interesting images, pictures, dreams. Today was bliss. I can now, officially recommend it!