sunsets

Sunset in the city.  You can't really see it, but you know it's beautiful.  

     Steel and glass afire 10 stories high.  Every tower an inferno.  

     Cars dancing in and out of shadows, tossing beams of blinding light your way for split seconds at a time.  
     Slivers of sky sneaking glances of the ruby and amethyst cloud necklaces that hang between buildings.  
     You see it without seeing it.  You see its effects: its breathtaking hues and scenes that prick you in a million places to just stop a moment and be.  

     Yesterday, I sat in the chapel in the early evening.  It's a small chapel on the top floor of a building atop a hill overlooking the Wyoming Valley of NorthEastern Pennsylvania.  Two of the walls are mostly window, including the one facing west.  I stand at the window, alone in this holy place.  In the distance are the modest peaks of mountains, many of them hollow from a century of coal mining.  As the sun sank down behind them, they are suddenly bathed in fire.  I think about how one of them burns inside and out, and chuckle to myself at this loose image for a homily some day.  
     With a smile I sat down in my seat for a little contemplation before vespers.  I hadn't turned the lights on, but the room was aglow nonetheless.  A soft penetrating light, and you could almost sense in it the fatigue of another day almost gone.  Long grotesque shadows stretched across the walls, but in the brilliant burnt orange glow of the room their edges were gentle and their bodies not very dark.  The shadow on the wall from the crucifix was unrecognizable and faint, like an oil stain in a tablecloth from years ago.  
     I let Him in, and rested there in those Arms.  I felt the warmth deep within and realized that in the evening glow I and the burning mountain are one and the same.  And I knew that like that mountain, the sun will fade and the gentle snow will cover me with its heavy and encompassing poverty of purity, weighing down the branches of the trees that cover me. But like that mountain, I will still burn inside as I once did without.
     This is a special time, it occurred to me.  Then thoughts danced in and out of my head until the chapel was filled; thoughts of the nature of mercy, the difficulty of discipline, and how virginity is the flower of the Church.  Then I stood and invoked God's assistance, and found whispered words of gratitude escape my lips, thanking Him for helping me start to learn how to be.  

     Why are sunsets the best time of day?  There is no end to their beauty.  There is no end to their application to life's most tender moments. 
     I wonder if the other Times of Day complain about the Sunset's monopoly on beauty and imagery.  I know I would, selfish brat that I am.  
     Silly sunrise, learn to be.  Silly midday, learn to be.  Silly midnight, learn to be.  
     Silly novice...

I came, I saw, I venti'd

(this reflection is from a couple weeks ago, at the novitiate)

     A free spot on a couch outside Starbucks in the surprisingly warm early-evening sun of a balmy January day in Colorado Springs.  I saw it and pursued it.  Vini, vidi, vici, with a venti in my hand.  To kick back in such a way, my flannel shirt mocking the unnecessary coats around me, is a luxury that not even South Carolina often provides in the first week of January.  
     Stolen moments like these are gifts.
     Who would have thought in the intensity of silent recollection I would ever have the opportunity to pour over a good history of Germany in front of a Starbucks on a Thursday afternoon?  I sure wouldn't have.  Moments like these are stolen.  They aren't an escape, but a brief detour to collect the good in the day-to-day that would have been otherwise left scattered.  
     Little bits of grace dust, blowing in the winds or unrecollection until they end up in dark corners.  
     But these unusual moments, offered and seized, allow me to collect that grace dust.  I scoop it up in my hands on that couch and savor it, like a spoonful of Nutella snuck on the way back from a midnight bathroom trip.  
     Moments of detour from the regularity and discipline of a well-lived life, it is in these where gratitude seizes me most profoundly, reopening my eyes to the electric flow of grace that would otherwise be taken for granted.  
     These moments are the scenic overlooks in the mountain passes of life's journey.  Traversing mountains is a grueling task that requires constant attention to the road ahead.  You can't do more than sneak a glance or two in your periphery through the openings in the trees, especially if your eyes have to stay on the constant twist and turn and incline and decline of the road.  These glances are brief and incomplete, and frankly they rob the majesty of the mountains their due.  
     Because mountains are made to be gaped at.  
     They were designed to steal your breath and make you feel that perhaps you could waste away staring at them, and in doing so you would have somehow accomplished everything that was possible for you on this earth.  The half-second partial glances from the road fall short of the very purpose of the mountains.
     Enter: the scenic overlook.  This is a simple place, a turnoff and a parkinglot next to a break in the trees.  But it is in this simple place that you accomplish that impossible task of appreciating the fullness of the mountains.  It is here that the magnificence of the journey is appreciated.  It is here where gratitude is won.  And it is here that you are able to reorient yourself, discovering again why you set out and rediscovering the need to continue the journey.  
     Even Christ stopped at the scenic overlooks.  Think of the most important journey he made, from praetorium to Golgotha.  A moment for His mother, a moment for Veronica, a moment for the women, none of these the purpose of the trip, but still necessary stops along the way.  The job was to haul the wood up the hill in order to win His life's victory over sin, but He stole a few moments along the way to see those He loved, to accept and give a few gifts, and to put the whole journey in perspective for someone else.  In these stolen moments, I like to think that He was able to stop and admire the magnificence of the whole journey, reminding Himself why He was there and maybe even having a little gratitude for it.  Yes, in these moments He made the periphery the focus.  
     And by doing so, He proved that it's ok to do the same.  
     To imitate Christ is to stop at the scenic overlook.  To imitate Christ is to steal a half hour at Starbucks on the way home from voice lessons, that momentary gift of reprieve that can only cause growth in gratitude and resolve.  
     To imitate Christ is to be in each moment, not to just travel through it.  

We will now pause for a brief intermission...

     Intermission.

     Necessary, of course.  But why?

     The curtain drops and the lights go up.  You stand and stretch your arms like you just woke up.  The dream is still vivid on your eyelids when they close against the brightness.  You squeeze down the row, sorry, excuse me, pardon.  Circulation finally starts returning to your legs.  Pressure, pinpricks, then that rush of coolness.  Hobble to the bathroom.  

     You've enjoyed the first half.  At the sink, you wash your hands and look at the smile in your eyes.  It's the show that caused that smile.  You wink at yourself, just for fun.

     A couple people in the bathroom heatedly discuss the third scene.  Well, that's new, you think, as you begin to see the characters in the new light of your Comrades of the Loo.  In the hallway, the fancy carpet is new. It has to be. Somehow, the show has started to change you.  New eyes look at the world around you.  Eyes with more perspective.  You like it.

     Settle back down snugly into your seat.  It's still warm.  A smile.  Open the program, and your mind begins to dance around Act 1.  A few more connections are made.  Another smile.  A prediction about this or that character springs up in your head. Yet another smile.  You fondly remember that one musical number, and hope you hear her voice again in Act 2.  Why so many smiles?  

     Lights dim.  You move your shoulders back and forth to set yourself firmly to launch once more into a different world.  You are ready now.  

     Intermission is not a break from show, but rather a necessary component of it.  Through it the audience can decompress, loosen the tension in the legs and bladder, walk around and get a little oxygen to the brain.  But this time is not a vacation from the show, since the scenes and characters and songs swirl around in your head, all of it connecting in new places and becoming ever more brilliant.  Themes are discovered that were missed in real time.  Real appreciation for the first act begins to settle in, and excitement sprouts in this garden bed of gratitude.  

     Yes, intermission is an essential part of the show, making the whole experience more profound and complete.

     Now, for my next trick:

Intermission is to a stage show, as Winter Placement is to a Novitiate.  

Splise!

Surprise:  I'm back.

No, I've not left the novitiate.
No, I've not broken any rules.
No, I'm not lying.

I'm in Northeastern Pennsylvania for a month, working at a school called King's College. This is part of a program of the novitiate called the Winter Placement. 

Here's what happens.  The provincial designates the college as a "second novitiate" so everything is canonically kosher.  I get on a plane and fly to a place.  I work at that place for a month, applying the lessons from my novitiate to apostolic ministry.  I will then return to the novitiate for the second half of the year to learn from this experience.

This is the hinge of the year.  I am literally inside of a hinge. 

SQUEEEEEEAK

Why am I back here?  
Well, firstly, because blogging is allowed at Winter Placement.  Secondly, because blogging is a recollective experience for me and recollection is essential for the Winter Placement.  Thirdly, because I feel like it.

So hello again, internets.