Perception

Photo (c) 2010 Joaquin Aragon, used by permission

Perceptions paint colors of various hues on my day. Is the glass half-full or half-empty? Am I in a cave viewing only shadows, not reality itself? Or is the brightness of sunlight illuminating the dark corners of my mind so that I can see the dust particles floating about?

For years, Sundays were the busiest day of the week for me. I used my Monday(s) as a day to recuperate. My perception of Monday, therefore, is one of quiet, restful reflection about the upcoming week even though my life has changed. I do sympathize with those who must start their workweek and dread Mondays. I hear, "Yep, it was another Monday!" on social networking sites, meaning, all hell broke loose, or at the very least, nothing "seemed" to go right.

I often wonder, is it the anticipation that my Monday will be quiet and restful that colors my perception, so much so that no matter what happens on Monday, I tend to see it as positive? Is it contrariwise for others?

As I watch Mom cope with her own reality from day to day, colored by her perceptions, it was interesting to me to see that yesterday, Sunday, a day that typically, for years, filled her mind with doom and gloom, was actually pleasant, filled with laughter. She even started, at one point, singing in her mind "June is Busting Out all Over," after she asked me what month it was. What made the difference? For one thing, she didn't remember it was Sunday. To her, it was just another day, but one that, at least yesterday, didn't have thoughts of doom and gloom clouding her perception.

Living with Alzheimer's

Photo (c) 2009, David McClearen

My mother lives with Alzheimer's. 
I live with Alzheimer's too, because mom 
lives with me. 

Her memories are all mixed up, her perceptions fused with her paranoia, short-term memory loss means conversations are difficult because thoughts are repeated endlessly, and sometimes, hallucinations are accepted as real-life events with little room for discussion as to the validity of them. Some days a dark cloud descends and life is bleak.

It does no good to remember the relationship we had in the past. It has changed. Mom knows her relationships have changed and she can't find a reason for it. It does no good telling her the change is in her mind. Even if she could accept it, which she can't, she would forget the conversation soon after, and would wonder to herself again, what happened.

It also does no good trying to get her to remember, as if by saying, "Mom, remember this or that," she will somehow suddenly put everything together in one Ah Ha! moment. It only frustrates her and makes her feel like I think she is crazy, which I don't. Sometimes, with a little guidance, she can come to an understanding that is consistent with reality, but her reality changes with her perceptions, her perceptions are her reality, so even though there might be a meeting of the minds, it soon passes, and we are back to square one.

Other days, laughter fills our conversations, and I find mom delightful. Today was one of those days.
It's best to take each moment, each hour, each day as they come. That is easier said then done, but I'm learning. I never know, when she ascends the stairs, if I'll meet the lady or the tiger, but whoever she is at that moment, she is still my mom, and I love her. I am grateful, will be eternally grateful, for this time we have together, living with Alzheimer's. She is not the disease, she lives with it. And so do I.

Southwell on the beauty of faith

I keep running into Jesuits, not literally, in my readings. Came across another, Robert Southwell (c. 1561 – 21 February 1595), an English Jesuit that according to Joseph Pearce (Literary Giants, Literary Catholics), "employed the beauty of language as a means of conveying the beauty of faith (p 18)."

Southwell was martyred in post-Reformation England. Queen Elizabeth I issued an edict that any English-born subject that entered the priesthood after her accession to the throne could not stay in England longer than 40 days on pain of death. Southwell at his own request was sent to England in 1586 as a Jesuit missionary. According to his bio, he went from one Catholic family to another, administering the rites of the Church. Arrested after six years of missionary work, he was held under house arrest and tortured in the hopes that he might reveal the identities of or provide evidence against other priests. He spent 3 years in the Tower of London, where he was only allowed his Bible and the works of St Bernard. While awaiting execution for treason, although he denied any evil intentions toward the queen, the torture continued. Eventually he was hanged, disemboweled, and quartered.


Much of his poetry, it is believed, was written from prison and is said to have influenced another Englishman, William Shakespeare.


Southwell's intimate relationship with his Lord, forged in the furnace of his suffering, shines forth in his verse:
Let folly praise that fancy loves, I praise and love that Child
Whose heart no thought, whose tongue no word, whose hand no deed defiled.
I praise him most, I love him best, all praise and love is his,
While him I love, in him I live, and cannot live amiss.
Love's sweetest mark, laud's highest theme, man's most desired light,
To love him life, to leave him death, to live in him delight.
He mine by gift, I his by debt, thus each to other due,
First friend he was, best friend he is, all times will try him true. 


All I can add is, Amen. 

Gerald Manley Hopkins and me on writing

A prayer, as Jesuit Gerald Manley Hopkins offers his writing efforts to God, even though they might seem fruitless:

"Also in some meditations today I earnestly asked our Lord to watch over my compositions that they might do me no harm through the enmity or imprudence of any man or my own; that He would have them as His own and employ or not employ them as He should see fit. And this I believe is heard."

I've practiced the art of writing for many years, journals, letters, written lectures, devotions, news articles, papers and thesis, all in an effort to explore possibilities of the writing life. I'm still experimenting with possibilities. I've read books and thought, I wish I had written that, or instead, this is how I would have written it, or better yet, if I could write one book before I die, this is the kind it would be. Sometimes I've allowed reactions to my efforts to derail and discourage me, but over the long haul, I've always come back to the same desire, to write.

I heard an author on television just yesterday say that writing is a solitary life, and it is, but that writers like to be read, they need others, and it's true. It's one of those paradoxes that accompany the writing life. We certainly desire a pat on the back, a human desire for appreciation. It gets lonely sometimes lost in my own head. But in the end, a writer must write because he or she must write, so I keep writing.

My greater desire, more than the desire for appreciation from a reader, as lovely as it is, is that my writing, whatever form it might take, be Ad Majorem Dei Gloriam, for the greater glory of God, which is why Gerald Manley Hopkins' prayer resonated with me.

I passionately long for God to find my efforts a fragrance that is pleasing and brings Him joy; that my meager efforts to indulge myself in the written word would somehow unite with His effort to comfort, encourage, and inspire others to seek out the best in themselves and become all that God created them to be. In the process, of course, as I write, I seek the same for me, that I become all God created me to be, seeking to be, as St Francis claims holiness is, the best version of myself.

I guess if I were going to illustrate how I see myself in writing, it would be as a St Clare to St Francis, or perhaps a more accessible example, a Sam Gangee to Frodo. I can't carry someone's burden, I can't walk someone's path, but I can come alongside, walking with for a spell, or even at times, carrying another by offering words in writing that might help another continue moving forward when the way is dark and the path is difficult. To that end, I write.

"Be who you are"

I first heard the prayer attributed to St Francis (there seems to be a question as to whether or not he actually wrote it...see prayer below) when I was living in Kuwait. A dear friend of mine, used to strum her guitar as a group of expat mothers gathered together for support and for Bible Study (1982-1984). The sentiments found in the prayer, inspired me to try to emulate them. St Francis raised the bar high and I haven't always lived up to my aspirations, nevertheless the prayer accompanies me on my journey.

The same friend, after she returned to England, sent me a card with this prayer on it. She found the card among her sister's things in South Africa after her sister was brutally beaten and raped by a roving gang of thugs. The card is among my dearest treasures. It reminds me the way of peace is not an easy path, even though Jesus said Blessed are the peacemakers. I believe they are blessed, nevertheless, that doesn't mean the way of peace is strewn with flowers and accolades. Often it is a hard road, strewn instead with sharp rocks and hurtful thorns that prick the skin, leave painful blisters, and even open wounds that take a long, long time to heal, and when they do, leave scars.

In 2005, on a journey to Italy, I had the opportunity to visit Assisi, the birthplace of St Francis. I spent time before the cross where St Francis felt he heard the Lord speak to him, telling him to repair his Church. Francis took the words literally and began to repair the chapel at San Damiano the site of the discovery of his calling.

As I sat on a hard bench, gazing at the cross, listening to a choir of nuns sing A Capella (it was beautiful by the way) my thoughts turned to the dilemma of the hour. I've always struggled with ""what do you want me to do, Lord?"" thinking there was some "thing," some "position," some "occupation," that I would somehow discover was "THE Lord's will" for me. Certainly, that was Francis' heart cry at San Damiano, and I too wanted to hear from the Lord.

So I sat there, in the manner of St Francis asking the Lord, "what do you want me to be?" it's interesting that I used those words, to be, instead of to do, because at the time, I was trying to decide between entering a residency program for Chaplains at the Med Center or working on a Masters to teach. I was asking, what do you want me to be, a chaplain or a teacher?

In the quiet of my contemplation I did hear, from somewhere deep within, "Be who you are."

I've thought about that ever since. Who am I? What is it that energizes me? Where do I find myself more often then not, in whatever relationship I am in, or whatever circumstance that confronts me? I find myself encouraging others. Primarily, the Lord's will for me is not a position, an occupation, a particular relationship, or place. It is being who I am, in the midst of life, whatever life brings my way. I can explore various occupations, and have, but in the end, whatever I choose, and right now it is to write, I'll be seeking to encourage others.

Simple, but not easy. 

Auspicious beginnings

John Paul II left a message for those of us that have allowed their fears from time to time to stifle their creative spark, or for one reason of the other have let the responses of others to those attempts to express ourselves mute our voices. He said, "Be not afraid." They are not original words, one can find the same sentiment written elsewhere, but somehow, given a lifetime of circumstances that challenged and shaped him, the words carry the weight of experience.

With that short phrase, ringing in my heart and mind, I'm launching out into the depths of blogger land, to write those words pushing against the bars I've put around them, as they seek a spot to present themselves to the great unknown. Surrendering to the unknown is always scary, so I remind myself, though the future, that which lies beyond the bend, will always remain unknown, I know the one who holds my future and therefore, I can.