DIARY OF AN ACCIDENTAL HERMIT

Wednesday, May 15, 2013

BREAD AND CHOCOLATE

I awoke at 4 something yesterday morning, roused from deep sleep by the newspaper delivery person who, every morning, does something that wakes me. I have yet to figure out what it is.

Prayers, meditation and hot tea ensued, followed by an unreasonable lift in my mood that somehow made me think that, after one morning of rising early, I was suddenly able to maintain a convent schedule. I decided to program Angelus prayers into my phone alarm clock at 6 a.m., noon and 6 p.m., making a mental note that I could also attend daily 7 a.m. mass at the nearby church. By the time I realized that, however, I had already missed morning mass for that day, but resolved to do it on the following morning and thereafter.

Come to think of it, I could also schedule daily rosary, Divine Mercy Chaplet and Saint Michael Chaplet! Oh, boy.

The Angelus prayer at 6 a.m. was a given. By the time noon arrived, however, I was stuck on the telephone with someone with whom I had to converse and make arrangements to get help unpacking after the recent replacement of my floor.

I was taken away from that phone call by a surprise visit from a neighbor who had been depressed and decided to drop by for a little tea and comfort. Obviously, it is more important to be present and give consolation to my neighbor than to sit alone in my apartment and pray, so that is what I did, making a mental note to myself that THIS is why the protection of a formal convent is so valuable to those who have a vocation as a contemplative.

Between the logistics of incoming and outgoing mail, UPS package deliveries, meal preparation and eating, care of the animals, a few loads of laundry and other cleaning, the day ran away from me. OK, I admit to taking a nap in my old broken recliner in the late afternoon that slipped into evening. It was not an intentional nap, mind you. I had sat down to check my email and just drifted away. In the process, I missed the 6 p.m. Angelus.

At midnight, I found myself contemplating the remains of the day with my evening prescriptions, a cup of tea and a piece of home made bread from a loaf a dear friend had made for me, warmed in the microwave with a small piece of dark chocolate. The house is still largely messy, plenty of things undone, a monastic schedule in shambles, and most of my good intentions unrealized.

I could get mad and punish myself for being so unrelentingly common and fallible. Instead, I decide to accept myself and my limitations and to be exceedingly grateful for God's grace, without which I would be completely lost.

Copyright (c) 2013, Rose Marie Shea
All rights reserved.

Sunday, May 12, 2013

DO YOU HAVE X-RAY VISION?

Messy Day Bed

Recently, an otherwise dear and helpful neighbor has been harassing me about the state of my apartment. I am disabled and can't keep up with the kitchen, yet she tells me, "I know you can do it." She is wrong, of course. I am doing the best I can.

Looking at me from the outside, no one can possibly see what is going on inside. One cannot know, for instance, that standing for more than 10 minutes sends sciatic pain shooting down at least one leg while the other goes completely numb. One cannot see the misshapen valves in the major vein of my left leg for which there is no cure, operation or treatment except for elevating the legs to help the blood get back up my body and prevent nasty ulcers from forming at my ankles. It is very hard to do the dishes while prone.

I've had 5 casts on that left leg from numerous breaks. The knee is permanently inflated: clogged with scar tissue from an old injury. Sometimes, apropos of nothing, I just fall. One or both of my legs give out without notice. My legs are trying to take me down. And that's just the legs. I won't go into the back, the migraines, the this, the that. I am riddled with illnesses and injuries that cannot be seen unless you have x-ray vision.

One can assume that, in a country where "don't judge a book by its cover" is a well-worn cliché, I would not have to remind people that this is true, but, evidently, I do.

My kitchen is messy because that is the best I can do. It is humiliating to have to tell people that. I keep getting well-meaning advice about the proper methods of housekeeping: advice I have clearly said I neither need nor want. I have been doing my own housekeeping for 43 years. It would be highly unusual not to have learned anything about it in all that time. I know how to keep a house. I just can't do it.

Sometimes I make jokes and say, "You used to be able to eat off my floor, now people are afraid to walk on it." It's really not that bad. Exaggeration is the soul of comedy. What I want someone to take away from my comment, however, is that housekeeping is not new to me and that I used to have an almost sterile home. In fact, I used to pride myself on my neatness and cleanliness, most especially because my mother was a horrible housekeeper and I never wanted to be like her. She was also ill, however, with multiple sclerosis, rheumatoid arthritis, Lupus and God knows what else. When I was a child, I did not know enough to realize that her illnesses were the reason for our obscenely messy house. Now, of course, I have more compassion for her.

Copyright (c) 2013, Rose Marie Shea
All rights reserved.

Monday, May 6, 2013

STANDING IN THE LIGHT AND CRYING

I awoke weepy and sore of heart this morning, grieving over the recent harsh words of a relative who had always been narcissistic and insensitive but whose behavior had also become increasingly harsh since I became disabled. I say that I was grieving because, despite my efforts to insert compassion and reason into the dialogue, this relative had continued to launch into self-serving, critical diatribes in emails sent to me over a week's time, and I knew the day had come to cut communications with her. I crossed myself and prayed for her well-being, calling blessings down upon her head at the same time tears dripped down my face.

"Bless them that curse you, and pray for them

that despitefully use you."

Luke 6:28

It's been a long time since I cried. Between a healthy prayer life, some good antidepressants, and a vested interest in being a person of joy, I don't have much occasion to weep. But witnessing another person traveling the dark path of anger and ego instead of choosing love makes me very sad.

In him was life, and the life was the light of men.

John 1:4

Christians are a people of light. We are to lead people to the light, travel with them in the light and always advocate for the light which is love, the light which is Jesus. However, when someone does everything they can to pull our focus away from that light, then we have to let go or we will be sucked into the never-ending night of the dark one. We must not walk the dark path and therefore cannot accompany those who do. We can only pray that they turn back and join us in the light of God's love.

“Whoever will not receive you or listen to your words –

go outside that house or town and shake the dust from

your feet.” Matthew 10:14

My day was spent alternating between housework, tears, and fending off a few more hostile emails. I realized that part of kicking the dust from my feet consists in kicking the emails out of my inbox without reading them. Curiosity can become a tool of Satan, under circumstances like these.

Today wasn't a good day. I mourned the loss of a relationship, but more than the death of the relationship, I was upset to see the unrepentant ego of a person wedded to their anger, someone who is always right, even when wrong: someone walking toward hell. I will have to pray for her every day.

Monday, April 29, 2013

GOD IS WATCHING YOU

"Golf Course 2012"

The first thing I saw when I opened my blinds this morning was the genitalia of a country club workman who had decided to urinate in public. He stood next to a tree, thinking that he was hidden. Why he thought so is beyond me. Ours is a huge apartment complex just across the ditch, with hundreds of windows that face the course. The grounds were deceptively empty and secluded if you ignored the behemoth of cement across the way and the houses that line the other side.

This is not what I wanted to see first thing in the morning. For heaven's sake, I hadn't even had my first cup of tea! I called the police and registered a complaint. The first time this happened, I had called the country club directly, thinking they would make it known among members and employees that it was not acceptable to use those carefully tended lawns as one's own private toilet. After all, there ARE restrooms provided on the course.

In addition to a lack of a sense of dignity about their person, I suppose laziness is to blame, but even if one could be assured of privacy in this sort of thing, does one really want to be the kind of person who uses a public space as a lavatory? God is watching us in every moment. I don't imagine He approves of us urinating all over our employer's business.

Before long, I saw a little go-cart come out and fetch the man. Later, a different man came to finish the job the urinator had left behind, trimming the grass around the bottom of the trees with the weed whacker. I wonder if the urinator had gotten fired or if the police had carted him off to jail on a charge of indecent exposure. I'll never know, of course.

One thing I do know however: I won't have to be the unwilling witness to that man's public toilet routine again.

It occurs to me that, since God knows all and sees all, do his eyes burn and his brain reel from having to see all the mischief we get up to? If I am offended by the landscaper's display, can you imagine how upset God must be with our truly awful sins? It makes me want to be very very good so as not to upset him and disappoint him. Neither do I want to be carted off to the eternal jail.

I have a picture in my mind in which I die and then wait for a little golf cart to come and take me where I have to go. Is the golf cart to hell painted with little flames on the side? Is that how we find out that we're going to spiritual hell? Or are all the golf carts painted in light pink and baby blue in order to fake us out so we don't jump out before we reach Hades? Oh, I digress.

Message to all men: Keep it in your pants unless you're in the bathroom, fellas. You never know who might be watching.

Copyright (c) 2013, Rose Marie Shea
All rights reserved.

Sunday, April 28, 2013

ON SALE! TODAY ONLY!

"Wooden Cross"

I sleep with a wooden cross that a friend made me. About 8" tall by 5" wide, it is the perfect size to hold in my hand as I fall asleep. Some days, I wake up holding it just as I was the night before. This morning I was laying upon it, its sharp edges digging into my left shoulder. I had a hunch that today I would be feeling each cross I was carrying.

I grabbed a hurried cup of tea while I checked my email and found that most of them were from merchants with whom I had done business in the past and who wanted me to buy from them again. "Last day" for the big sale was the general theme. They told me I had to take advantage of the special prices or I was going to miss out.

Well, yes, I WAS going to miss out because it's the end of my month and I have no money to spend. The sale prices WERE quite nice, and I did need several of the items, but the merchants' attempts to force me to buy TODAY actually resulted in me not buying at all. Why don't the merchants think about the people who get paid once a month? We aren't rich, but we still have to purchase SOME things.

I was mulling this over as I got ready for church.

One of my friends, Jane, an earth angel if ever there was one, had called me last night and offered to bring me to church this morning, which would be the first time I attended my new church on Sunday. Up to this point, she had taken me only to the 5:00 p.m. Saturday night mass. The Saturday mass is sparsely attended, which is fine with me, having problems, as I do, with crowds, but I was keen to see what it is like on a Sunday at this church.

Even so, despite the sporadic visits to the Saturday mass, I am out of the habit of going places in general, and I am always forgetting something. This morning, I forgot to feed the dog before I left for mass.

Arriving early so that Jane could take care of some church business, I settled into one of the pews reserved for the handicapped. No sooner did I take out my pretty faux pearl rosary and began to recite the prayers mentally, but two ladies behind me began a loud and animated conversation about their physical ills. When the conversation segued into the constipation one experiences as a result of certain medicines, I thought I was going to lose my composure completely. Gamely, I hung on without laughing, and was able to finish my prayers despite the scatological conversation. I thought briefly about giving up the rosary but realized I was probably a good example for them, even if they weren't going to let it interfere with their chat fest. I did my best to concentrate.

The mass was about to begin, and this section of seating had one or two people in each row when a young woman approached me and demanded I move over so that she could have my seat. She was exceptionally rude and aggressive. She had her mother with her and pointed out that her mother had a cane. With a smile, I picked up my cane and indicated that I also had a cane and that I needed to sit on the end of the row so that I could use the arm to rise from my seat.

The mother walked past me and sat down, but the young woman was incensed. She continued to grouse about me and refused to sit in the pew, choosing instead to sit in another section and glaring holes into me while she muttered to herself. The mass started and she thought better of her choice of seating, so she again returned to my seat and said, "will you let me in?" Before I had a chance to slip out of my seat ( I do move slowly these days) she pushed her commodious bottom into me and squeezed past. For the rest of the mass, she kept turning and staring at me, hating holes into my spirit, or at least it felt that way.

When it came time to hold hands during the "Our Father" prayer, she attempted to exclude me by reaching for the hand of the woman to the other side of me, but that woman could see what was going on, and she took my right hand instead. I offered my left hand to the young woman, but she turned her back on me and refused to give it.

Later, during the offering of peace to one another, I extended my hand in peace and said, "May the peace of the Lord be with you." She ignored me. I just smiled and continued to greet everyone else. I have to say that the rest of the people in the section were VERY sweet and kind. I have never seen such warmth in church as among these nice ladies and gentlemen. The general feeling was quite warm, especially in comparison to what I was getting from the two people who sat next to me.

During the mass, when the time came to offer personal prayers, I said a quick prayer for this woman and her mother and asked that the loving warmth of Jesus would fill their hearts. I also prayed for others who had requested my prayers. For myself, I prayed for guidance.

At the end of the mass, as everyone was filing out and the last song was being sung, I reflected on how lucky we are that we don't have to buy Jesus with money on Sunday (although some people might say it FEELS that way when one is confronted with the offering basket.) In any case, we don't have to purchase him, and there is no final sale date beyond which He is not available. No matter where you sit in church, He is equally available to all. All he wants from us is our love and obedience, two things which cost nothing, a price which everyone is rich enough to pay.

Copyright (c) 2013, Rose Marie Shea
All rights reserved.

Saturday, April 27, 2013

JUGGLING

The One O'clock Garden

I woke at 7:00 a.m., as I have done since I started taking a pain medication to manage my arthritis and other chronic ills. I'm glad that my schedule has righted itself and the insomnia is no more, thanks be to God. I cross myself, greet the Lord, and then pull myself out of bed. At 8:30 I have to help my neighbor dose her cat with antibiotic, and I can't laze in bed.

A quick wash and dress. The dog and cat are clamoring to get their needs met. I open the blinds so the cat doesn't destroy them in his insistence that he must get his sunbath and he must get it now. The dog is playing 'cutest dog in the world,' rolling on her back and grinning at me. I grab the leash and a little blue bag and take her out behind my apartment. I used to take her for a walk every morning, but my legs can no longer accommodate her. Now, her exercise consists in racing up and down the hallway during play times with me, and chasing the cat into one of several kitty havens when I am not available.

I make my tea with lots of sugar and half-and-half. I have read that adding sugar to our diets isn't good for us, but the cream and sugar stave off hunger that I am not able to address for a couple hours.

My neighbor's cat is tiny, fluffy and adorable, but still quite strong and insistent that she will not take the medicine willingly. She flings medicine all over my clothes. I make a mental note that I must step up my progress on the large pile of laundry that waits for me in my hallway. The washer/dryer that comes with this apartment is very small, perhaps half the capacity of a full size washer/dryer. It is challenging to stay on top of laundry, but I must do it before my new floor gets installed, otherwise where will I put it if it isn't folded and stowed somewhere?

My neighbor is too grateful for my help. I tell her again, and this I believe, "This is what neighbors are supposed to do for one another." If the world was as it should be, she would have people coming to help her every day with her kitty. Neighbors would be coming every day to help me also. We would all pull together, like that wonderful story, "Stone Soup," in which numerous neighbors with limited resources, pool their food items and arrive at a delicious soup that feeds everyone.

I return home to my building with a small bag of mandarin oranges with which my neighbor gifts me. I need them, as fresh fruit is scarce in my house toward the end of the month. I've forgotten my carry-cup of hot tea, but know that I can pick it up later tonight when I return to dose the kitty again.

Not feeling well enough to climb the stairs to turn on the hose and water the garden, I quickly carry a pot of water to the most delicate items. Haphazardly, I transplant some seedlings into two planters. They are little herbs of some sort. I forgot to make note of which herbs went into which little seedling pot! I hope they will make themselves known when they are mature. I had originally thought I would save some money by growing some herbs and veggies in my garden, but I have spent far more money than I could ever hope to save. I wish had more help with the watering chores. Some people have asked for some of my cilantro when it grows, but make no offer to help.

There is a nice planter full of dirt on my patio, and I become a little frustrated because I ran out of money for the garden. Seeing it there starts me thinking. There are so many things that are needed, but barely enough money for any one thing. Gardening, clothes, vet visits and licensing for the animals, dental visits, furniture. Many things. My bed is 9 years old and causing more back pain. I have no summer clothes, except for a few blouses. I need to recline my legs because of my medical condition, but my recliner is broken. Recliners are very expensive, but what I really need is a couch. I need $600 of art supplies to take up my acrylic painting projects. What to choose, when even food is hard to come by at times?

It occurs to me that I am like a one-armed juggler, throwing cinderblocks skyward and losing strength with each brick.

When comfortable people think about the poor, I don't think they spend much mental effort adding up what it costs for everything a person needs to live. When I tell them that the average Social Security benefit is $1,000 a month, they often exclaim, "that's plenty of money to live on!" even though they themselves may spend close to $1,000 a month on rent or mortgage alone. I think they imagine that "the government" takes up the slack, but the government pays for nothing, especially if your income is more than $600 a month. Poor folk are very much on our own.

When I see a documentary on PBS about the Maldives and how global warming is threatening to submerge their entire country, I remind myself that at least my bare survival is relatively secure, for the time being. Watching the (former) president of that country fight with behemoths like China and India in efforts to get them to agree to reducing emissions to a point that would save the Maldives, I am reminded again of the constant struggle between the "haves" and the "have nots." The "haves" always want more, and are willing to sacrifice the very survival of the "have nots" in their greed to have ever more prosperity.

Right now, the American president has offered up Social Security for cuts, vis-à-vis the chained CPI which will not keep up with actual inflation, making each of us poorer and poorer as time goes on. Before long, there will be nothing to juggle. We will be 'dirt poor' and bare, white-knuckle survival will be our lot. In that case, I should be grateful for being able to juggle right now, I suppose.

Copyright (c) 2013, Rose Marie Shea
All rights reserved.

Friday, April 26, 2013

BOREDOM

Shivaasana in the Sun

I have never understood boredom, that is to say that I do not recall ever having experienced it.

Every morning at this time of year, my animals and I have a routine that finds us spending at least an hour in front of the living room window, enjoying the sun, the cat in his carpet window cradle, the dog in a hot spot near my feet.

I sit and drink my tea while I gaze at the old elm trees on the golf course. I will often pray in the manner of the practice of the presence of the Lord. If I have a bit more energy, I may check my email or Facebook, but the quiet is thick and slow. No music. No television.

I realized this morning that I am never bored because I find contentment in ordinary daily routines. I feel a deep joy, knowing that the Lord is with me. I don't need excitement to hold my interest. It helps that I also have a lot of hobbies, but I am easily entertained, in general.

This morning, I went to a neighbor's house to help her medicate her pet cat that had several of its teeth removed in surgery, just as I have done twice daily since she brought the cat home at the beginning of the week. I cleaned house and did laundry in anticipation of getting new floors installed in a couple of weeks. I cooked. I prayed. I ate. I played with the animals, fed them, and cleaned up after their daily ablutions. I did some knitting and caught up with "Fashion Star" on television. I circulated some of my favorite Bible quotes onto Facebook. I wanted to finish reading the book about Mother Angelica by Raymond Arroyo, but I was just too busy! It was a wonderful day: quiet, peaceful, prayerful.

Last year, one of my neighbors told me I am a "bump on a log" and that I am boring because I do not crave excitement. Learning that I am a boring person was a revelation. It never occurred to me, but once it was pointed out to me, I had to agree, with some amusement. Imagine: living almost 60 years before learning one is boring. Just think of all the people I have bored in that time!

The neat thing about being a boring person, aside from being happy with simple things and therefore happy most of the time, is that I find other people very interesting and I can be a good listener. Indeed, now that I've realized how boring I am, I've been trying not to burden people with too many of my own tales. Sometimes I forget, but usually check myself when I see the other person's eyes glaze over. Then I switch the conversation to them, if I can.

It occurred to me today that this is yet another way in which I am out of step with the rest of the world. American lifestyle has become frenetic over the last 50 years or so. Everything seems much too loud and too fast. Video games; cell phones; computers; YouTube clips; loud music; loud, fast-paced movies and crazy television commercials...whew! It overwhelms me. Sometimes I just can't cope and have to insert ear plugs that I carry with me whenever I go out into the world.

Despite the very small club to which I belong, I like to recommend it as preferable to the manic, almost crazed pace of the modern majority. I don't think it's good for people. I could bore you with a long treatise on why I think this is so, but I'll spare you. All I will say is that I'm pretty happy with my 'boring' life and maybe you'd like to consider trying it, albeit without the chronic illness that assails me.

There isn't much chance I will sway many people over to the "boring" side of life, but I do think that the quiet life, the contemplative life, the grateful and easily pleased type of life is much preferable to the wildly craving and craven style we've grown into over the years. But if I do manage to convert anyone, we will recognize one another in the grocery store. We'll all be sporting brightly colored plugs stuffed in our ears.

Shivaasana in the Sun #2