IN EXILE
By Father Ron Rolheiser, OMI
During the last years of his life, Thomas Merton lived in a hermitage outside a monastery, hoping to find more solitude in his life. But solitude is an illusive thing, and he found it was forever escaping him.
Then one morning he sensed that for a moment he had found it. However, what he experienced was a surprise to him. Solitude, it turns out, is not some altered state of consciousness or some heightened sense of God and the transcendent in our lives. Solitude, as he experienced it, was simply being peacefully inside your own skin, gratefully aware of and peacefully breathing in the immense richness inside your own life. Solitude consists in sleeping in intimacy with your own experience, at peace there, aware of its riches and wonder.

But that’s not easy. It’s rare. Rarely do we find ourselves at peace with the present moment inside us. Why? Because that’s the way we are built. We are overcharged for this world. When God put us into this world, as the author of the Book of Ecclesiastes tells us, God put “timelessness” into our hearts and because of that we don’t make easy peace with our lives.

We read this, for example, in the famous passage about the rhythm of the seasons in the Book of Ecclesiastes. There is a time and a season for everything, we are told: A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to gather in what is planted; a time to kill, and a time to heal … and so the text goes on. Then, after listing this natural rhythm of time and the seasons, the author ends with these words: God has made everything suitable for its own time but has put timelessness into the human heart so that human beings are out of sync with the rhythms of the seasons from beginning to end.

The Hebrew word used here to express “timelessness” is Olam, a word suggesting “eternity” and “transcendence.” Some English translations put it this way: God has put a sense of past and future into our hearts. Perhaps that captures it best in terms of how we generally experience this in our lives. We know from experience how difficult it is to be at peace inside the present moment because the past and the future won’t leave us alone. They are forever coloring the present.

The past haunts us with half-forgotten lullabies and melodies that trigger memories about love found and lost, about wounds that have never healed, and with inchoate feelings of nostalgia, regret and wanting to cling to something that once was. The past is forever sowing restlessness into the present moment.

And the future? It impales itself into the present as well, looming as promise and threat, forever demanding our attention, forever sowing anxiety into our lives and forever stripping us of the capacity to simply rest inside the present.

The present is forever colored by obsessions, heartaches, headaches and anxieties that have little to do with people we are actually sitting with at table.

Philosophers and poets have given various names to this. Plato called it “a madness that comes from the gods”; Hindu poets have called it “a nostalgia for the infinite”; Shakespeare speaks of “immortal longings,” and Augustine, in perhaps the most famous naming of them all, called it an incurable restlessness that God has put into the human heart to keep it from finding a home in something less than the infinite and eternal – “You have made us for yourself, Lord, and our hearts are restless until they rest in you.”

And so, it’s rare to be peacefully present to our own lives, restful inside of our own skins. But this “torment,” as T.S. Eliot, once named it, has a God-given intentionality, a divine purpose.

Henri Nouwen, in a remarkable passage both names the struggle and its purpose: “Our life is a short time in expectation, a time in which sadness and joy kiss each other at every moment. There is a quality of sadness that pervades all the moments of our life. It seems that there is no such thing as a clear-cut pure joy, but that even in the most happy moments of our existence we sense a tinge of sadness. In every satisfaction, there is an awareness of limitations. In every success, there is the fear of jealousy. Behind every smile, there is a tear. In every embrace, there is loneliness. In every friendship, distance. And in all forms of light, there is the knowledge of surrounding darkness. But this intimate experience in which every bit of life is touched by a bit of death can point us beyond the limits of our existence. It can do so by making us look forward in expectation to that day when our hearts will be filled with perfect joy, a joy that no one shall take away from us.”

Our restless hearts keep us from falling asleep to the divine fire inside us.

(Oblate Father Ron Rolheiser is a theologian, teacher and award-winning author. He can be contacted through his website www.ronrolheiser.com.)

From the Hermitage
By sister alies therese
Not long until we purple-up and turn our attention more intentionally to the Passion of Jesus. In our tradition, we fast, pray, and give alms and are convinced that we shall make progress, and our improvement will bring holiness. Really? An earlier tradition taught this:
Baal Shem Tov (Poland, d. 1760) (a Hasid or ‘pious one’) taught, “A person of piety complained to the Master, saying, ‘I have labored hard and long in the service of the Lord, and yet I have received no improvement. I am still an ordinary and ignorant person.’ And the Master answered, ‘Ah, yes, but you have gained the realization that you are ordinary and ignorant and that in itself is a worthy accomplishment, is it not?’”

Will I ever be ‘meeked?’ A horse is not meeked to take away its power … no, it is to harness it, moving the animal’s heart from independence to loyalty. In 2019 Maleah (internet) wrote, “Meekness is a superpower developing a focused deliberate center.” This center is our place of prayer and an attitude of meekness reminds us of who our center is.

“To pray is to pay attention to something or someone other than oneself. Whenever one so concentrates attention … and completely forgets the ego, they are praying.” (W.H. Auden, Prayer the Nature of, A Certain World, 1970)

‘Meeking a horse’ comes from Old English and Old Norse. Injukr means gentle … and way back to the Greek praus meaning strength under control. Focused and deliberate. Strong under control.

Behavioral aspects give us a few clues as to how we are doing and though we may remain ignorant and ordinary we can check our tempers, hold back a bad word, or show an engaging smile rather than a wrinkly frown. Aristotle remarked a “praus person has the virtue of the mean between two extremes. The person submits or constrains power for greater effect on self and others.”

Prayer is essential, for to lower oneself before the magnificence of God is to allow ourselves to be meeked into wholesome submission, being transformed moment by moment into the gentleness of God. Another way we express this deliberate and controlled behavior is to let others speak … you listen, and as Carnegie remarked, “do what’s needed.” Sometimes we do not pay attention to what is needed, thinking we can be holy our way. A Sufi story teaches, “There are those in winter who, calling themselves religious say, ‘I shall not wear warm clothes. I shall trust in God’s kindness to protect me from the cold.’ But these people do not realize that the God who created cold has also given human beings the means to protect themselves from it.’”

What do the Scriptures say about being ‘meek?’ Consider both Psalm 37 and Matthew 5:5ff. In Psalm 37 we understand that the meek are the anawim, those overwhelmed by want thus their complete dependence upon God. “Quiet down before God and be prayerful before Him. Don’t bother with those who climb the ladder, who elbow their way to the top. Bridle your anger, trash your wrath, cool your pipes — it only makes things worse.” (Peterson, Psalm 37, The Message)

When Matthew picks these notions up and includes them in the beatitudes, we hear the call of ‘slow to anger,’ ‘gentle with others’ and not striving but accepting. “You are blessed when you are content with just who you are – no more, no less. That’s the moment you find yourselves proud owners of everything that can’t be bought.” (Peterson, MT 5:5, The Message). We are patiently learning to trust and to build up nourishing connections. As with that horse, we develop a partnership.

“Pray simply. Do not expect to find in your heart any remarkable gift of prayer. Consider yourself unworthy of it. Then you will find peace. Use the empty, dry coldness of your prayer as food for your humility.” (St. Makari of Optino) We have the opportunity each day to grow in meekness as we deepen, pray and do what is needed. That is our journey, and we need to make good friends with our horses.

“Grow up gentle and good and never learn bad ways; do your work with goodwill, lift your feet up when you trot, and never bite or kick even in play.” (Anna Sewell, Black Beauty).
BLESSINGS.

(Sister alies therese is a canonically vowed hermit with days formed around prayer and writing.)

It IS GOOD
By Elizabeth Scalia
Early on, my friend Ruby absorbed the message that a “strong, independent” woman never seeks out help; she does everything all by herself, for herself.

Thus, Ruby is fast to offer help to anyone else who might need it – she’ll watch the kids and the dog; she’ll drive you to the emergency room and hold your hand while you wait; she’ll take some of the work off your desk if you’re having a bad week and complete it for you. But she’ll never ask anyone to do the same for her.

As a single mother Ruby did it all, saw to it all and carried it all on her own wee shoulders, raising a sweet-natured boy into manhood in the process. Her buzzwords were “strength” and “self-sufficiency,” even when it meant wearing shoes long in need of replacement. Challenges were risen to; personal needs brushed aside. She could look back on each day knowing she’d done her best by her world, and that any debts she’d incurred – those financial, social or personal obligations that can make a resolutely self-contained sort feel uncomfortably vulnerable – had been kept to a minimum.

And that all worked for her. Until suddenly, it didn’t.

As for so many of us, a cancer diagnosis proved to be the line – the one obstacle her strong will could not bend, nor her stiff spine break through.

Ruby put a good face on things through biopsies and MRI’s, and as cancer in one breast became cancer in both and discussions of surgical options and treatments took her diabetes into consideration. She presented a strong face to her family – the determined, extreme calm at the crux of her own private maelstrom. Then a pre-surgical stress test flagged a new concern: “It might be broken-heart syndrome,” the cardiologist mused.

And that was when she cracked.

My friend has faced the challenges of aging with grace and humor, but the whole “cancer-diabetes-wait-my-heart-is-broken-now?” trifecta did her in. For the first time since childhood, Ruby felt utterly unmoored from her own strengths.
“You need to let yourself lean on your family and friends, a little,” I advised her. “It’s okay to say, ‘I need a hug, I need someone to fuss on me a little bit.’ Let people help!”

Uncomfortable with need and dubious about the whole endeavor, Ruby eventually hinted to her family that she was scared. “So much for your good advice,” she reported back, fuming. “They just said stuff like, ‘you have to take it a day at a time!’ I’m over here, terrified, and they’re no help at all!”

Sadly, people mostly don’t know what to say in such circumstances, particularly if they’ve never been asked for support. Ruby’s sudden need for the intimacy of consolation threw them off, a bit. Unsure about saying, “We’re scared too,” they fell back on “one day at a time,” which my friend – once she’d calmed down – recognized was sound advice. Cancer is scary. Sometimes you can only deal with it an hour (or even five minutes) at a time.

“You should forgive them for having no idea how to comfort you,” I told her, “because you’ve never needed them to before. This is new territory for everyone. Even if they’re not getting the words right, believe that they want the best for you and are praying for you.”

“And I hate myself for crying uncontrollably,” she wailed. “I really do.”

How often have we heard “strong” women say this – as if tears were a detestable fault or a sin against the perceived self? How many of us are walking around with broken hearts because we won’t permit ourselves the medicine of weeping and fully feeling the things we’ve determinedly repressed because we want that illusion of strength?

“That’s stupid,” I said, “You wouldn’t hate me, or one of your siblings, for crying; why should you hate yourself? Just stop that and let yourself feel all the things you have a right to feel. You’re allowed. I give you permission!”

At the feast of the Presentation of the Lord, we read, “But who will endure the day of his coming? And who can stand when he appears? For he is like the refiner’s fire … He will sit refining and purifying silver…” (Mal 3:2-3).

Set before all of us are weird, muddy amalgams of blessing and anxious terrors. God lives with us in the refining fires of our challenges, tempering and purifying us for something yet greater than all we know.
It is good to let ourselves acknowledge the fires, the better to endure them in trust until we are free.

(Elizabeth Scalia is editor at large for OSV. Follow her on X @theanchoress.)