An ask-an-expert column in this week's Catholic paper speaks to the practice of centering prayer and the mixed reception it has in Catholic circles. It is a practice of eastern mysticism that has made its way into Christian contemplation. The expert speaks of the potential dangerousness of the practice and seems to imply that most who attempt the practice will end up in a place that is theologically unorthodox, that is, in an amorphous "melting into God" (quotes in the original) rather than "with the consciousness of one's own frailties in the face of God's majesty." The column composed of mostly definitive statements ends with somewhat of a caveat: "One needs to remember though, that the true contemplative experience of God in prayer comes only as a gift and can never be guaranteed by any particular technique."

How is it that any one tradition can so limit the experience of That Which is Beyond? If it is truly a gift, how can the recipient limit that gift once and for all time? How is it that the Roman Catholic contemplative is limited to a consciousness of his or her own frailties and is not permitted to experience his or her strength, beauty, and majesty in so far as the image of the Creator has been incorporated into the Created? The gift may well be to expand the notion of orthodoxy within any particular faith tradition.

If something is worth doing,
it is worth doing well.
Doing something well means doing something
as if one's life depends upon it,
because. . .it just might.

As of this morning we are entering the fourth day in a stretch of cool, wet July weather. It doesn't feel like July, even though the calendar says that it is. How un-summerlike have the conditions been? An extra-blanket-on-the-bed-night three nights in a row cool.

On Wednesday, the most recent real summer weather day, I put in a long day cutting firewood in the hopes that I could finish the job and that I would not have to go back at it Thursday should it rain as forecast. I finished the job, and it rained--either good foresight or causality on my part. I am glad that I saw that task through to the end. I am not so glad with the abrupt and marked change in the weather. Limited outside activities have been the order of the day these past three days. I have the option of permitting the weather to influence, if not dictate, my outdoor activities. Morning walks in the drizzle, mist, fog, or combinations thereof simply means that I take appropriate measures to dry my clothes on my return home. Breaks in the weather during these days have allowed for the completion of a few minor outdoor tasks. I am also well into my next read. During yesterday's morning walk I took the opportunity to stop at a local restaurant to enjoy a $1.50--tax included--cup of coffee with unlimited refills. I can also attribute that decision to the weather, at least, in part.

The coffee came with the chance encounter with a local artist, who had recently returned from a three-week job in southern Indiana painting stage sets. Next month he will return to Indiana to do up a local restaurant as a New Orleans street scene. If any of my readers, find themselves in southern Indiana somewhere along the Lincoln Highway thinking that they are in New Orleans, blame the confusion on an itinerant artist and his patron and not that extra glass of sweetened ice tea. I came away from this encounter thinking how much of our lives are spent thinking, imagining, and play-acting that we are not where we are, but that we are someplace else. In so doing, how much of the very real do we miss out on?

If we stay tuned into the weather, doesn't that encourage us to keep it real? The weather not only can dictate outdoor activities, but prompts adjustments to those in which we continue to be engaged: long or short sleeves, rain gear or sunscreen. Indoor activities are also weather influenced: the number of blankets on the bed, open or closed windows, fans, or a cake in the oven.

Hand-me-downs? At my age? Yes, they are hand-me-downs.

Yesterday the maple syrup crew, Rick, Bill and I, got together for the final clean-up of the 2013 season and to move firewood for the 2014 season to the sugarhouse. The latter task was delayed by the wet spring and early summer rains which kept the trail through the woods somewhat impassable. The rains have continued as late as yesterday morning; the low spot in the trail was wet enough to coat the truck and tractor tires as an unsightly and unserviceable recapping effort. (I am sure not all of my readers are aware that at one time worn tires were “recapped” and resold.) At the end of a seven hour day with coffee and lunch breaks—one of each—the firewood relocation effort is not yet completed. We plan to go back at it this morning.

During one of the breaks, Bill noted that I was wearing a t-shirt touting the advantages of ice cream and including the Dairy Farmers of Wisconsin logo. Bill then posed the question: “Where did you get that shirt?” I explained that it was a hand-me-down that Mom had given me after Dad passed away. Bill then pointed out that the belt he was wearing was his Dad’s, given to him by his mother after his father’s death. It was his Dad’s dress uniform Sam Browne belt from World War II with the shoulder piece removed. There we were a couple of guys in our late 60’s wearing hand-me-downs with an altogether different emotional content than we would have experienced at age ten when wearing hand-me-downs from an older brother, cousin, or neighbor.

I choose this particular t-shirt for purely utilitarian purposes. The forecast called for temperatures approaching 90 degrees, so I chose from the pile of work t-shirts—as opposed to the pile of dress t-shirts—the one lightest in color and weight. Despite that being my motivation, the history of that shirt is never forgotten whenever I put it on. It was duly worn, before it was hand down to me, so I wear it like I own it. By the end of the day it was filthy, but I didn’t rip it. It has survived a passage into and through the Valley of Filth before and came through the follow-up laundry experience unstained. I am certain that this particular t-shirt will not survive a passage into a following generation unless it simply becomes a member of someone’s ragbag. I plan to wear it and work it hard; it came to me with evidence of hard work, so it ain’t like it has never been there before. And I plan to be able to wear it and work it hard for some time..

Wearing hand-me-downs sourced by the previous wearer outgrowing them is very different than wearing hand-me-downs sourced by the previous wearer’s death. Connections with the previous wearer are also an important element in this exchange. There is a denim jacket in the downstairs closet that was given to my Dad by a neighbor after her husband passed away. This is a neighbor whom I never met. When Mom passed the jacket onto me, she commented that she didn’t think that Dad ever wore it, even after she had shortened the sleeves to fit Dad’s wingspan. The modification also fits my wingspan. What is the difference here? I think I can best sum it up with the following direct and heartfelt statement: If you are going to wear a dead man’s clothes, it is best to have known that man and to have an ongoing attachment to that man’s memory.

 

I suspect that a lot of folks are like me. When purchasing a book from Amazon.com, we will add that additional item to the shopping cart so that the purchase exceeds $25.00 and qualifies for free shipping. I know that my daughter fell to this ploy when she purchased a book for me for my birthday. Since she is family, I can't extrapolate that to "a lot of folks" and maintain the validity of my statistical analysis. One needs to be cautious when one's study population consists of two closely biologically related subjects. The resulting research findings may not reflect the general human condition, but simply be indicative of isolated genetic aberration or even a cultural trait masquerading as a genetic expression.

Despite the machinations of its purchase, the "filler" for a recent purchase of mine has been a good read. The filler is The Instinct to Heal by David Servan-Schrieber. The author is a psychiatrist and a member of the group that I like to call Inter-Planetary Association of Post-Psycho-Pharmacological Dudes and Dudettes. (In catchy short-hand, that will be IPAPPPDD or the IPA Triple P Double D.) The group membership is open to dudettes, even though I have yet to find a dudette to offer a lifetime membership in the group and the honorific, yet enviable, status of Career Diplomat in Post-Psycho-Pharmacological Mechanics. Honorary degrees in Humane Letters with a variety of subspecialties are also available. Dues and fees are based on an individual "ability to pay" and determined by a group of one's peers motivated by unknown and unseen forces and with total disregards for the future, let alone the good name, of the organization.

Despite my feeble attempt to make light of the perspective of this author, this is serious business and a point of view with which I am comfortable supported by my own professional experience. Folks with this orientation move beyond the mind-body distinction so characteristic of the physical health/mental health divide. They simply reject it as a legitimate parsing of the human condition; this rejection is supported by the observation of practitioners and by formal studies. The methods employed to restore and promote health and well-being also reflect this integrated approach.

So Pope Francis drives a Ford Focus. And here's the proof: http://adage.com/article/news/ford-focus-brand-vehicle-pope-s-humble-car-message/243011/

Last week I succumbed to my wife's urgings and agreed to replace our 2002 Focus allegedly because of the increasing frequency of repair bills. Following some on-line and on-the-ground research, we decided to upgrade to a 2013 Focus. (My wife and the car are out of town for a few days so I can't include a picture--of the car, that is, with this post.)

Now I read that Pope Francis also drives a Focus. I don't know the vintage of this alternative pope-mobile. I wonder who decides for the Pope when it is time to replace his vehicle. Celibacy means having to make so many more decisions on one's own.

What is the impact of any number of recent comments made and examples shown by Pope Francis? Will the local bishop be trading in his Jeep Grand Cherokee?

In any case, I feel a little smug about driving a new Ford Focus--maybe even a little self-righteous--possibly even a little too self-righteous.

Sometimes, one just needs a layover day. Canoe campers will be familiar with the layover day. It is a non-travel day in the trip plan. It is a day that serves any number of purposes--a rest and relaxation day to recover from the rigors the preceding days of paddle and portage--a chance to string a line and dry out sleeping bags and tents packed either in the rain or simply endowed with several nights' heavy dew--fishing, swimming, or both--a more leisurely pace in making supper and performing other camp chores--repairing a piece of equipment--an afternoon nap--reading--catching up on one's trip log-- and yes, enjoying more than one day's allotment of trail mix. It may even become a travel day, if the crew is behind schedule and needs to make up time and distance. The layover day may be determined by the weather and taken when high winds prevent venturing forth. The crew may decide to travel in light rain on a scheduled layover day, thereby saving the layover day for when there is a break in the weather.

Today is my layover day. I spent the past two days making firewood for the 2014 maple syrup season. They were two long days. Monday I quit at 6:00PM; yesterday I quit at 5:00PM. Rather than push on, I decided that a layover day was called for. This morning I got the oil changed in the pick-up and made a periodically compulsory trip to Walmart for somethings which I simply can't live without. Since then the lawn has been mowed and the chainsaw sharpened. It is too bad there is not a Brewers' game this afternoon. I could have caught the end of it while napping in the recliner.

I have a daylong commitment tomorrow. I will be back making firewood on Friday and Saturday, weather permitting. The weather may have me considering another layover day this trip.