I admit to feeling a bit gloomy of late. Sitting in the clinic last week waiting for my flu shot, I looked up from Eichmann in Jerusalem, thought of the books back home on my bedside table--Jean-Francois Steiner's Treblinka, Elinor Lipper's Eleven Years in Soviet Prison Camps, Cries Unheard: Why Children Kill by Gitta Sereny--and realized You have got to start getting out more.
So I switched over to some light reading: Ruth Burrows on mystical prayer. Now I am a huge Ruth Burrows fan but I did feel she was a teeny bit hectoring here (driven to distraction, perhaps, by having been cloistered for decades with her fellow nuns), a little Just because you go to Mass, and pray and try to be humble, don’t think for one quick second that means ANYTHING, don't for a moment think that means you are making one iota of "progress," which is no doubt true but has the unfortunate effect of making you feel like more of a fake than you are already, doubting yourself and your motives even more than you doubt them now, whereas I feel that praying, going to Mass, staying sober, stumbling forward no matter how mixed your motives is better than not doing any of those things at all.
Here's something I heard recently vis-a-vis difficult relationships: We become "addicted to the drama of the resentment." I don't want any part of that.
|THAT'S JUST A SIMPLE TRIP TO THE KITCHEN |
FOR THAT FIRST CUP OF COFFEE!