bugscufle
08-27-2007, 03:10 PM
Finally, we have Texas summer nights. A big, bright moon, a deep sky, and a warm and wide open world. It is almost as though the moon and I are riding the same trail west. Not all that sure where we are going, it really doesn't matter. Just glad to have the companionship. Some relationships are like that.
I'm listening to Nana Mouskouri. Everytime I see her picture I feel like a 15 year old with a secret crush. When one is a baby they give them models to keep their minds occupied. A male adult mind doesn't even need movement to hold it spellbound. Just a pretty scene or picture works wonders. I've tried to figure out if I think Nana looks so good because she sings so good, or if it is that she sings so good that makes her look so good, without success.
Sometimes Nana's songs make the countryside feel happy. Sometimes her songs make the countryside feel sad. Sometimes her songs make me think the countryside is praying. Praying for that which is past and praying for that which is to come. Nana was singing Fields of Love, and my mind starting waltzing to personas and places in the past. Once, I was small enough to ride in the space behind the back seat, between the rear window. It was late night and the watchful moon followed us west at a respectable distance, I remember one shy creature wondering about another shy creature.
Many miles and years later I remember watching a big moon between ponderosa pines in northern Arizona. A young lady named Jordan was enjoying the singular summer between first and second grade. We were having as intelligent a conversation as I am capable of having. Jordan was a terrific combination of joy, wonder and energy. When she smiled it made the world feel good.
Jordan asked me what the moon was made of. I said, "vanilla ice cream." I also told her there was a man up there who keeps eating the ice cream. Jordan laughed. She knew I was full of it, but she liked my explanations just the same.
Jordan is no longer with us. She left unexpectedly several years ago. To her parents and others. there is still a feeling that her face and voice will appear just anytime now.
I thought about Mother Teresa. Such a mixture courage, frustration, physical harshness, love, and timidity. I've always wondered if anyone ever told her she was pretty, even if only as a child. The way she held the sick and dying causes me to wonder how often, as a child or adult, was she held tightly and made to feel precious.
Teresa is another crush, another lesson. The greatest beauty is not visual. It takes quite a life to convince someone as visual as myself of that fact.
Shortly after beginning work in Calcutta's slums, Teresa reported being abandoned by the spirit that had led her there. "Where is my faith?" she wrote. "Even deep down … there is nothing but emptiness and darkness. ... If there be God — please forgive me." Eight years later, she's was still looking for the belief she had lost. "Such deep longing for God," she writes. "… repulsed, empty, no faith, no love, no zeal."
As her fame increased, her faith did not return. Her smile, she said, was a mask. "What do I labor for?" she asked. "If there be no God, there can be no soul. If there be no soul then, Jesus, You also are not true." Now that is just the solid kind of doubt that someone like me can back up against and scratch our backs on.
According to her letters, Mother Teresa died with her doubts. She even reported that she stopped praying. The Catholic Church decided to keep her letters, even though one of Teresa's dying wishes was that they be destroyed. Even with her own, sometimes overwhelming doubt, her love for others would not let her injure their faith.
Sometimes I feel like I am on an ocean of inebriated, full of faith, individuals. People believing what they want to believe. People believing what they need to believe. People believing what they are too scared not to believe.
I am struggling to keep afloat amidst the waves that rock this ocean, wanting to swim towards truth but having no ideal what direction it is. And along comes Mother Teresa in her boat of doubt and pulls me in. We are not sure where we are going, but she is only sure that she must keep going, and that is enough for me. As we go along, others climb into the boat.
I respect simple faith. I also respect an earned and enlightened doubt. A creative force that is so incessantly and adamantly asserted is non-visual, intangible and poorly confirmed. At most, all we have to base faith on is evidence of things unseen.
I guess the best final words anyone can have are, "I love you too." But if that is not to be for me, it is kind of comforting to know that, "My God, my God! Why have you forsaken me" is okay.
The consensus of the Catholic Church is that Teresa should be exalted, in the form of a Saint, as the apostles. Tradition says this status is confirmed by a number of miracles obtained with her blessing. I have no doubt that if millions will that miracles are obtained through her intercession, the quota will be met. What I think is really happening here is that those who share Teresa's religious faith are collectively telling Teresa, "We love you too!"
If there is a God, I trust that his/her exaltation of Teresa will have the most significance. The present I take with me from Teresa, and others, as I drift along with my doubts, is that there is enough evidence to believe that the greatest beauty is unseen and that I may yet find such a great and loving force as her life
I'm listening to Nana Mouskouri. Everytime I see her picture I feel like a 15 year old with a secret crush. When one is a baby they give them models to keep their minds occupied. A male adult mind doesn't even need movement to hold it spellbound. Just a pretty scene or picture works wonders. I've tried to figure out if I think Nana looks so good because she sings so good, or if it is that she sings so good that makes her look so good, without success.
Sometimes Nana's songs make the countryside feel happy. Sometimes her songs make the countryside feel sad. Sometimes her songs make me think the countryside is praying. Praying for that which is past and praying for that which is to come. Nana was singing Fields of Love, and my mind starting waltzing to personas and places in the past. Once, I was small enough to ride in the space behind the back seat, between the rear window. It was late night and the watchful moon followed us west at a respectable distance, I remember one shy creature wondering about another shy creature.
Many miles and years later I remember watching a big moon between ponderosa pines in northern Arizona. A young lady named Jordan was enjoying the singular summer between first and second grade. We were having as intelligent a conversation as I am capable of having. Jordan was a terrific combination of joy, wonder and energy. When she smiled it made the world feel good.
Jordan asked me what the moon was made of. I said, "vanilla ice cream." I also told her there was a man up there who keeps eating the ice cream. Jordan laughed. She knew I was full of it, but she liked my explanations just the same.
Jordan is no longer with us. She left unexpectedly several years ago. To her parents and others. there is still a feeling that her face and voice will appear just anytime now.
I thought about Mother Teresa. Such a mixture courage, frustration, physical harshness, love, and timidity. I've always wondered if anyone ever told her she was pretty, even if only as a child. The way she held the sick and dying causes me to wonder how often, as a child or adult, was she held tightly and made to feel precious.
Teresa is another crush, another lesson. The greatest beauty is not visual. It takes quite a life to convince someone as visual as myself of that fact.
Shortly after beginning work in Calcutta's slums, Teresa reported being abandoned by the spirit that had led her there. "Where is my faith?" she wrote. "Even deep down … there is nothing but emptiness and darkness. ... If there be God — please forgive me." Eight years later, she's was still looking for the belief she had lost. "Such deep longing for God," she writes. "… repulsed, empty, no faith, no love, no zeal."
As her fame increased, her faith did not return. Her smile, she said, was a mask. "What do I labor for?" she asked. "If there be no God, there can be no soul. If there be no soul then, Jesus, You also are not true." Now that is just the solid kind of doubt that someone like me can back up against and scratch our backs on.
According to her letters, Mother Teresa died with her doubts. She even reported that she stopped praying. The Catholic Church decided to keep her letters, even though one of Teresa's dying wishes was that they be destroyed. Even with her own, sometimes overwhelming doubt, her love for others would not let her injure their faith.
Sometimes I feel like I am on an ocean of inebriated, full of faith, individuals. People believing what they want to believe. People believing what they need to believe. People believing what they are too scared not to believe.
I am struggling to keep afloat amidst the waves that rock this ocean, wanting to swim towards truth but having no ideal what direction it is. And along comes Mother Teresa in her boat of doubt and pulls me in. We are not sure where we are going, but she is only sure that she must keep going, and that is enough for me. As we go along, others climb into the boat.
I respect simple faith. I also respect an earned and enlightened doubt. A creative force that is so incessantly and adamantly asserted is non-visual, intangible and poorly confirmed. At most, all we have to base faith on is evidence of things unseen.
I guess the best final words anyone can have are, "I love you too." But if that is not to be for me, it is kind of comforting to know that, "My God, my God! Why have you forsaken me" is okay.
The consensus of the Catholic Church is that Teresa should be exalted, in the form of a Saint, as the apostles. Tradition says this status is confirmed by a number of miracles obtained with her blessing. I have no doubt that if millions will that miracles are obtained through her intercession, the quota will be met. What I think is really happening here is that those who share Teresa's religious faith are collectively telling Teresa, "We love you too!"
If there is a God, I trust that his/her exaltation of Teresa will have the most significance. The present I take with me from Teresa, and others, as I drift along with my doubts, is that there is enough evidence to believe that the greatest beauty is unseen and that I may yet find such a great and loving force as her life