The Conditions of a Solitary Bird

Still here, and still still

Thu, 30 Jul 2009 18:25:23 GMT

People have asked me whether I am still pursuing the Solitary path. I am, indeed.

I just have not done so well with pursuing this journal!

I have settled into a rhythm of daily life. Work and pray. A lot of quiet time. A little pleasure. There is nothing severe about my rule of life, nothing dramatic. It feels gentle. Serene. I am content.

At the moment, I am not pursuing the "official" status with the Diocese of New York. I may yet do that. But right now is not the time. The time may yet come. Who knows what the future will bring?

My life, for the most part, is very still. But not stagnant. I think this stillness is a difference between youth and age. Younger people speak of growing. Reaching for something: more self-improvement, more experiences, more knowledge, more happiness, more accomplishment. As I grow older, I find that I no longer feel that push toward outward expansion. My growth is inward. I feel my life centering, drawing in. Becoming simpler. Instead of more, I want less: less activity, fewer things, fewer people, less movement, less distraction, less noise.

Of course there are challenges. Simplicity doesn't happen on its own. I may not want distractions, but they come anyway. I try to face them, handle them, dismiss them... and get back to the quiet.

And being content does not mean that I have no need to tend to my spirituality. Again, contentment is not stagnant. It is the contentment of a gardener, mindful of the activity of the Holy One.

So that's where I am, here and now.

Mortal, can these bones live?

Sat, 04 Apr 2009 04:23:26 GMT

The reflection below was written 13 years ago, during Holy Week, 1996, at a time when I was struggling. I had occasion to share this with someone, and thought it might be good to post it here as well.

A journal of Holy Week, 1996

See, from his head, his hands, his feet,
Sorrow and Love flow mingled down.
Did e'er such Love and Sorrow meet,
Or thorns compose so rich a crown?

--Isaac Watts

For me, the Holy Week experience is a cornerstone of my faith life. The liturgies are so rich, so evocative. This spiritual journey is such a deep and powerful experience for me each year. The ultimate meaning of human suffering, life and death, love and redemption--in a way that cannot be explained, only experienced. Each year it becomes more three-dimensional for me, gains more depth, as I grow in my own humanity.

I remember the year that I first grasped the dimension of love in it. It was the year Damian died. I learned to see love reflected in grief. At his funeral I had a revelation, as I saw the love with which we celebrated that funeral Eucharist, and especially as we censed the coffin and sprinkled it with water to recall the promises of his baptism. It was done with such love--sorrow to be sure, but also love... Two months later, it was Holy Week, and we mirrored that same action, experiencing the same feelings. Only this time it was the body of Christ. Visions are hard to explain, but it was as if I suddenly saw love radiating through every plane of relationship--the loving care of a lover for the body of his beloved... the loving care of those who prepared Jesus’ body for burial... the loving care of my friends for me... the loving care of God for us. The rhythms of the ceremonial actions, the rhythms of the words, the deeper alpha rhythms of the liturgy, the music which in its intimacy can contain joy and sorrow and love in one note. It was the first time that I felt so deeply loved by anyone, loved by God. It was the most astounding vision. Right now as I am writing this I can’t help the tears flowing because it was such a deep feeling.

For the first time in twenty five years I am reluctant to begin the Holy Week services. Too much emotion, too much activity.

Palm Sunday

Tomorrow, Palm Sunday, is the overture. Holy Week begins. We begin our journey as we recall Jesus beginning his final journey. I am uneasy. The experience is powerful, and right now I don’t know if I have the capacity to bear it. The depth of these experiences feels to me like a very loud sound, from which I shrink. Too much sorrow... too much love.

The colors of the day are a deep red, recalling the blood of Christ. Festive decorations are removed from the church, leaving it simple and empty, with room for what is to come. The service begins with the procession recalling his triumphal entry into Jerusalem. While it is filled with grandeur, there is a mood of solemn anticipation, because we know what will come next, just as Jesus knew. We must now confront our own destiny, just as Jesus confronted his.

In the midst of the service, the tone changes dramatically. As together we read the story of Jesus’ suffering and death, we must encounter what that story means for us, today. When the reading tells of the death of Jesus, we pause for a few minutes of silence, and kneel in reverence and reflection.

At this service there is a hymn which contains these words: “Love so amazing, so divine, demands my soul, my life, my all.” Despite my apprehension, I cannot resist. I am now fully in the experience of Holy Week.

When this dry soul those eyes shall see,
And drink the unsealed Source of Thee,
When Glory's sun faith's shades shall chase,
Then, for Thy veil, give me Thy face.

--Richard Crashaw, after Thomas Aquinas

Maundy Thursday

Thursday night’s service is very complex. On Maundy Thursday we commemorate the Last Supper, and a lot happened at the Last Supper. The most important thing is remembering the institution of the Eucharist. When we celebrate the Eucharist tonight, we will take the consecrated bread, which for us contains the presence of God, and carry it out of the church to another altar, an Altar of Repose, where it will remain until Friday. This year, I too have felt removed, absent, set apart somewhere in my own Altar of Repose.

Right in the middle of the service the entire congregation briefly adjourns to the parish hall and shares a ceremonial meal similar to the one they might have had that night, breaking bread together as they did. After this meal, most of us keep a fast until the end of the service on Good Friday.

Also that night, Jesus gave the new commandment: “Love one another as I have loved you.” So the mood of the service is intimate, suffused with warmth and love for one another. To demonstrate what he meant by that commandment, Jesus took the role of a servant and washed the feet of his disciples. Lloyd will repeat this action to call to mind his servant ministry, and wash the feet of members of the congregation. He has said that this is for him one of the most meaningful actions he does each year. It is a simple, loving, intimate thing and sometimes it brings tears to my eyes.

But when the meal had ended, Jesus was betrayed and arrested, and we also recall that this evening. The organ is kept silent until the Vigil on Saturday; the fact that we sing everything unaccompanied lends to the intimate feel of the service. After the meal, we return to the church, and in a stark ceremony we remove all ornaments and decorations from the altar and sanctuary, preparing it for Good Friday. The church ends up looking bare, empty. It is a mirror of the emptiness of my own soul.

The service ends very abruptly because it doesn’t really end here; it will continue tomorrow. By tradition, instead of filing out in an orderly way, everyone scatters in different directions, to recall how the disciples scattered and fled when Jesus was arrested.

During the night on Thursday, a Watch is kept before the consecrated bread, the presence of Christ, his body for us. The tradition comes from that night when Jesus was praying in the garden, awaiting his arrest, and Peter and James and John, his disciples, kept falling asleep. Can’t you watch with me even one hour? asked Jesus. So now we take turns, each to pray for an hour in the night before the sacrament. I love doing it, and sign up for 3am. In the silence of the night, in a darkened church, in a small circle of dim light from a few candles, with no distractions, I have had some of my best conversations with God. There is a suggested series of meditations I use, taking account of my life, dropping the barriers between me and God, being honest before him and admitting my need of him. In the darkness I suddenly have a fantasy that it is my body in the tabernacle, and God is the one keeping watch, waiting for my resurrection.

Heaven was his home,
but mine the tomb wherein he lay.

--Samuel Crossman ("Love Unknown")

Good Friday

On Friday at noon, we recall the death of Jesus in the traditional Good Friday service. The church, stripped of all ornament, is stark and bare; a visual shock. Yet the service that takes place here is wrapped with love. And that is the point: Love and Sorrow are inseparable. No matter how bare the church is, it is filled with Love. No matter how barren, how desolate your heart, Love is there. There is no place where Love cannot go. Even on this, the darkest of days, Love is here.

A cross is brought into the church. Behold the wood of the cross, the deacon sings, whereon was hung the world’s salvation. We respond: O come, let us worship.

We sing a motet by the 16th c. Spanish composer Victoria. The words in Latin are dulce lignum, dulces clavos, dulcia ferens pondera -- "sweetest wood, sweetest nails, sweetest weight is hung on thee." It seems a contradiction; how can the cross be sweet? Few non-Christians -- even few Christians -- understand why there is so much love in our celebration of Good Friday. But love is what it was all about. As I sang Victoria’s music, I felt so much love, I thought my heart would break. There is an old Hasidic story that says God wrote his name on the outside of the human heart, so that when the heart breaks, God’s love will fall inside. Well mine did, and it did.

We keep a ceremony called the Veneration of the Cross, in which we take turns to kneel before a crucifix and kiss the feet of the crucified one on the cross. Any other gesture of veneration is suitable, too, such as touching the feet of the corpus, or gazing upon it for a moment. It took me a few years to get into this ceremony, because it is so intimate. Now I find it necessary, as an expression of my love; the Watch the night before will have prepared my heart. It is well to acknowledge Jesus’ suffering, to recall that God himself suffered, and therefore God is in solidarity with human suffering. We remember that the ultimate meaning of Jesus’ death and rising is that we are reunited with God in the fullness of life, a life larger than this time and space. That is why this day is called Good.

Friday night we observe Tenebrae, the service of darkness, recalling the time Jesus lay in the tomb. We start with nine candles lighted, and chant a series of readings and psalms. After each one, one candle is extinguished, until at last the church is left in darkness. It is very dramatic. As the church is progressively darkened, I feel my spirit darkening as well.

In the service, we chant Psalm 88. The words mirror my own inner deadness. I have become like one who has no strength, lost among the dead. Do you work wonders for the dead? Will those who have died stand up and give you thanks?

I too am now entombed, stripped of everything of my own devising that might separate me from the love of God. In this emptiness of darkness, we are prepared for the light to come.

The hand of the Lord came upon me,
and he brought me out by the spirit of the Lord
and set me down in the middle of a valley.
It was full of bones.
He led me all around them;
there were very many lying in the valley,
and they were very dry.
He said to me, "Mortal, can these bones live?"
I answered, "O Lord God, you know."

--Ezekiel 37:1-3

The Great Vigil of Easter

Saturday night is the Christian Passover. Our Saturday night service, the Great Vigil of Easter, our most important service of the year, is packed with Passover imagery. Jesus’ death and resurrection took place on the day of Passover. To Christians, the story of Passover is a “type,” a metaphor, foretelling Christ. We tell the story of Israel’s deliverance at the Red Sea, we sing the song of Moses, we even sing a derivative of “this is the night” that Jews would recognize. We believe that as the blood of a lamb caused the angel of death to pass over the Israelites, so the blood of Jesus, the lamb of God, saves us from the angel of death; and as the Israelites passed from bondage to freedom through the water of the Red Sea, so we pass from death to life through the water of baptism.

The Great Vigil of Easter begins in a church still dark following Tenebrae the night before when we extinguished the candles one by one. But this darkness is vibrant, with hushed excitement and anticipation. We turn off all the lights so that it is pitch black. In the darkness, a fire is kindled. This is no gentle flame; it roars to life. The fire blazes up in the dark as a symbol of the light of life, Christ rising from the dead. A large candle, the Paschal Candle, is lit from the fire, and carried through the church with the chant, “The light of Christ”. Everyone has a small candle which is lit from the Paschal Candle as the light spreads to each of us.

By the light of the candles, we recite the story of salvation. By the light of the Paschal Candle, the deacon sings an ancient chant that calls to mind the Passover imagery. Then we tell stories of salvation from the Old Testament -- Noah and the Flood, Israel’s deliverance at the Red Sea, Ezekiel and the valley of dry bones. In the early church, this service would have begun in the middle of the night, and the storytelling would have gone on throughout the night, as they recalled God’s saving deeds in history.

I am assigned to read the story of Ezekiel and the valley of dry bones. I wonder if this was done deliberately, to make a point to me. Upon seeing the valley full of bones, Ezekiel said, “...and they were very dry.” I thought to myself, yes, that is me alright. Very dry. God asks, “Mortal, can these bones live?” In my heart I turn to God and ask him back the same question, about myself. Ezekiel is asked to prophesy to the dry bones, which then take on flesh, and breath, and live. God then explains that the bones are a symbol for Israel, and declares “I will raise you from your graves; I will bring you home.” I turn to the Lord in my heart and ask, “When?”

Then I am to sing Psalm 30 in response to the reading. “You brought me up, O Lord, from the dead.” I sing lines that seem very distant to me. “O Lord my God, I cried out to you, and you restored me to health... you restored my life as I was going down to the grave.” I do not feel this, and must sing it on faith; in the hope that one day I will feel this way. If God could do it for a valley full of dry bones, why not for me?

Then new Christians, having now heard the story of salvation in history, are baptized and we all renew our baptismal covenant, reminding ourselves that we are in relationship with God, and this salvation we have heard about is ours. It is a joyous occasion and I have seen many new Christians in tears of joy as they begin their new life.

Then it’s officially Easter! Light has broken through the darkness and, in a flash of recognition, we know the Risen Lord. Even to me, it is truly glorious, bright and shining. We sing alleluia over and over, ring bells, and throw on all the lights. The place erupts in joy as we celebrate Christ rising from the dead, defeating death on our behalf. We celebrate this first Eucharist of Easter with all the festivity we can find, and we don’t stop for fifty days.

Alleluia! Christ is risen!

Today, I say the words. I appreciate the joy, even if I cannot feel it directly. I know it is there. Here in the grave, I can see it shining out there. Some day, when the time is right, I will rise.

A Love Song of John of the Cross

Sat, 19 Apr 2008 13:52:19 GMT

(sincere apologies to those who have seen this already)

Last Saturday night I participated in singing the premiere of a new work by Steven Sametz, Two Love Songs of St. John of the Cross. Steven wrote the songs following a conversation about my spiritual path. I had offered him two excerpts from John's poetry as the texts for the songs. The first of the two poems is the one after which this journal is titled, which I wrote about last September. I'd like to share the second one now.

As a spiritual director, John of the Cross wrote poetry for his directees. The poems were filled with captivating imagery, and easy to remember. Each line of each poem contained a deeper meaning, and John wrote out detailed explanations of his poems, line by line. Thus the reader could easily call to mind a rich and meaningful teaching, by remembering a simple phrase.

This poem, two stanzas from Cantico espiritual (The Spiritual Canticle) is typical of John's writing, in that it stands equally well as a romantic love song (a rather torrid one, in fact) or as a spiritual song. John of the Cross was a lover—in love with God; and he counsels us to approach faith as a deepening relationship of love. His wisdom has continued to guide spiritual seekers for over 400 years.

Mi Amado, las montañas,
los valles solitarios nemorosos,
las ínsulas extrañas,
los ríos sonorosos,
el silbo de los aires amorosos,
la noche sosegada
en par de los levantes de la aurora,
la música callada,
la soledad sonora,
la cena que recrea y enamora.

My Beloved, the mountains,
and solitary wooded valleys,
strange islands,
and resounding rivers,
the whistling of love-stirring breezes,
the tranquil night
at the time of the rising dawn,
silent music,
sounding solitude,
the supper that refreshes, and deepens love.

This is that sweet song, in which the soul sings of her Beloved. He is strong and magnificent as a mountain; comforting as the cool, shady woods; filled with unexpected delights like an exotic island; possesses her powerfully like a roaring river; thrills her with a touch like a breeze on the skin; fills her and satisfies her like a delicious meal; opens her eyes to the unexpected, like the dawn. As they rest together in the tranquil night, the soul delights in these feelings like being filled with glorious music that can be heard truly only in silence. There is a luxurious silence, and wonderful music in which we, too, may simply breathe, rest and delight in the presence of Love.

As an aside, I found an interesting article about the resonance of Sufi thought in John of the Cross, living as he did in 16th century Spain with its Islamic influences.

The Last Time

Mon, 10 Mar 2008 19:21:50 GMT

I have not written too much here recently; I have been depressed over the loss of my feline companion, and also fighting a respiratory ailment which, while not serious, has left me feeling even more inert.

Four days before Jeoffry suddenly became ill, I noticed him doing certain things he had not done in awhile. For instance, one night he slept on my bed. He'd slept on my bed every night for many years, until about three years ago when he stopped (no doubt due to my increasingly loud snoring). That night, I was surprised to feel the familiar soft thud as he hopped up on the bed, and felt him curl up behind my knee as he used to, purring contentedly. I didn't understand why he suddenly decided to do it again, but I was grateful for his presence. A day or two later, he did another thing he hadn't done in ages; he climbed up on my chest while I was watching television, and nestled there with his head on my shoulder. After that he went outside and visited with an elderly neighbor he had not seen in a long time; and made his rounds in the yard more thoroughly than usual, stopping to survey his kingdom at length from several different vantage points. Another day he nagged me to play one of our wrestling games, in which he would end up rolling gleefully off the back of the couch to land in a heap on the cushions... which he seemed to think incredibly fun. All of these had been favorite activities of his, in which he had not engaged recently.

The next day, he suddenly developed heart failure. Three days later he died. When I look back on those few days, now, it seems as if he had been making a farewell tour of life. I think he knew that his time on earth was ending.

This made me start thinking about beginnings and endings. When we are young, life is a series of beginnings. Our first step, first words, first day of school, first date, first child. We start college, we start a new life, we start over, we start many things.

At some point we reach an age when life consists more of endings than beginnings. There is less future in my life now, and much more past. There is not as much of life left ahead of you. I was surprised one day to realize that I probably will not become the person I always thought I would be; time has run out on some of my dreams. As more and more people leave my life -- most recently my beloved Jeoffry -- I am very aware of those endings. There is an old thought about hermits, that a life in enclosure is something like being entombed. I understand where that thought comes from. When I close myself up in my apartment for days at a time, I do feel a bit entombed, as if it is a preview of the final leavetaking that will happen some day. Like Jeoffry, I, too, have become conscious of doing more and more things for the last time. Maybe this is not the last time, but there is a last time for everything.

Life is, by its nature, transient. There will be endings, good and bad. I would really like to be able to do what Jeoffry did: honor the people and activities in my life that have been important to me, with a good ending. When I knew Jeoffry was getting old, I became especially mindful when I held him, wondering each time if it would be the last time. I let my senses memorize how he felt in my arms, the softness of his fur, the gentle rise of his breathing, the shape of his little feet, the sound of his purring. I should be as mindful of everything and everyone I value. Since I cannot usually know when the actual last time will be, perhaps I will begin treating every time as if it were the last time, and savor that last time, as fully as I can.

Loneliness

Tue, 12 Feb 2008 02:46:09 GMT

Don't surrender your loneliness
So quickly.
Let it cut more deep.

Let it ferment and season you
As few human
Or even divine ingredients can.

Something missing in my heart tonight
Has made my eyes soft,
My voice so tender,

My need of God
Absolutely
Clear

Khwāja Šams ud-Dīn Muhammad Hāfez-e Šīrāzī, c. 1320-1389

my sadness

Wed, 30 Jan 2008 14:11:34 GMT

On Friday my beloved kitty died of heart failure. He was my faithful companion for 14 1/2 years, my alarm clock, my reality check, who loved me and made me laugh and kept me from taking myself too seriously. I tried my best to make him happy. I hope he was happy. I have been so sad since Friday, I hardly feel like doing anything. I know that he is safe in God's hands, but I miss him terribly.

The danger of rules

Wed, 16 Jan 2008 16:48:26 GMT

Composing my Rule of Life for my application to the Diocese has set me to thinking a lot about rules in general.

I know that for many people Christian faith is about rules. They see the Bible as "a blueprint for life" which seems to mean that it is something of a rule book with directions for right living: do this, don't do that.

I certainly will not criticize any Christian who hungers and thirsts after righteousness. Jesus emphasized that they are blessed. May God grant us all the courage to take responsibility for our behavior and become the best people we can be.

However sometimes I think there may be an inherent danger in focusing too much of one's attention on following rules. Leave aside, for the moment, the constant undercurrent of guilt and anxiety about making an error, and the effect it seems to have on interpersonal relationships when people focus that anxiety on others. More seriously, if you are not careful, you could begin to believe that your behavior has the power to influence God's opinion of you. In that way of thinking, if you follow the rules, you'll be right with God; if you don't follow the rules, you'll end up in Hell. You may believe that you have the power to make the Holy One not love you; or even that you can control your own salvation.

Grace doesn't work that way.

I am finding that many people I talk to misunderstand the purpose of a Rule of Life. We're not talking rules as in rule books. It is a Rule in the sense of a ruler: a way of measuring. It articulates, not so much what I promise to do, but my understanding of what God is doing in me. These are not the things I must do to be saved and to earn the love of God. These are the results: the evidence of my love affair with the Holy One.

By tradition, a Rule of Life contains vows, and that is, I think, the source of the confusion. I wish I could change that, but if I wish to travel the more traditional path within the Church, I think I'll have to accept that traditional formulary.

A Hermit of the Heart

Mon, 14 Jan 2008 19:25:32 GMT

A Hermit of the Heart

With no convent but the city itself, one woman finds a prayerful solitude as a contemplative order of one.

By Paul O’Donnell, Published Jan 13, 2008, New York Magazine

Contemplating solitude

Sun, 13 Jan 2008 15:12:24 GMT

Had I joined a contemplative monastic order, the experience of solitude would be a one-size-fits-all proposition. For example, all the Carthusian fathers keep the same schedule and observe the same amount of time alone in the same context.

There is no such uniformity among Solitaries. Every Solitary writes his or her own Rule of Life, and the degree of solitude varies widely according to the situation of each individual. Solitaries are self-supporting, and most must therefore compromise the ideals of solitude and silence. Some Solitaries must work in the world at a 9-to-5 job, and are only able to observe "enclosure" evenings and weekends. Others must regularly leave their hermitage for other reasons. Some live with families and have no real enclosure at all.

Two days a week, I have little or no experience of physical solitude, as I must commute into New York City for work. I have also resumed regular attendance at my parish church on Sundays; it also is in New York City, so that amounts to another day of commuting.

I spend the vast majority of the rest of my time at home alone.

But there are still things that come up, and I am trying to find the right balance in coping with them. Errands are one. Although I can accomplish many errands online (such as ordering groceries for delivery) there are still errands that require me to leave the house. I think the best way to deal with these is to do as much as I can to minimize them, and when they are unavoidable, to try to maintain an inner sense of solitude and silence while doing what I need to do as expeditiously as possible.

I have, as yet, not given up singing in the Princeton Singers, although I probably should, even though it's only one evening a week. I just love it so much, and the prospect of not being a musician is rather grim.

Social contact is a little trickier. This weekend is a good example. I agreed to two meetings with friends, one to run an errand together and one for dinner. Tonight I am having dinner with friends. This kind of thing does not happen often, but even though such contacts are infrequent, suddenly I am sensitive about it, for the sake of appearances. Many Solitaries never socialize at all. I personally don't feel that these meetings have intruded on my vowed solitude. However I notice that other people are surprised that as a Solitary I agree to any social engagements.

I am wondering whether I need to rethink my willingness to have social contacts. Maybe I should be listening to the reactions of those around me.

Exposure

Thu, 10 Jan 2008 11:46:28 GMT

I agreed to be interviewed for an article about the Solitary life that is due to appear in New York Magazine in the next week or two.

Mine is supposed to be a "hidden" vocation, and this feels anything but hidden.

The reporter who wrote the piece is a friend, and I trust him, and I can't imagine there will be anything embarrassing in it, but I am feeling very self-conscious about it nonetheless.

Relaxing into solitude

Wed, 09 Jan 2008 18:23:00 GMT

I had reason to glance at an entry here from eight months ago, in which I confessed to resentment about being left alone on my birthday by my friends.

By way of contrast, recently I spent Thanksgiving, Christmas and New Years at home alone; and it felt perfectly fine. I received no Christmas gifts either, and that felt fine too.

Somehow, something interior shifted between May and November. I think that's a good thing.

Where I am now

Fri, 04 Jan 2008 02:00:09 GMT

For new readers, here is a quick summary of where I am right now. (If you want some backstory, feel free to go back to previous entries and find out what transpired up to this point.)

If there were Episcopalian Carthusians, I would get rid of all my possessions and simply show up on their doorstep tomorrow. I would happily enter the monastery forever, never to leave, and abandon myself to the life of a monastic hermit. But after exploring the available religious communities for women in the Episcopal Church, I found that there are very few options for someone seeking a contemplative, eremitic life, as opposed to one devoted to community living and charitable service. In fact, there were only three tiny contemplative orders. Upon review, I felt that none of them are right for me.

Therefore I decided to move forward as a Solitary. I will keep my current job, continue to live alone in my current apartment, and convert my life into an eremitic one, insofar as possible, by the grace of God. For the most part, I am already living the life.

Fortuitously, I discovered that my own diocese, the Episcopal Diocese of New York, has just created a program for the Solitary vocation. The process requires an application, written statement, letters of recommendation, several interviews, medical and psychiatric evaluations, and a background check. If accepted as an aspirant, I would take annual vows for a period of five years, before making a Life Profession. As I write this today (July 2009) I am not moving forward with this option, but I might do so in the future.

Becoming a Solitary, whether through the Diocese of New York or on my own, involves a radical re-ordering of my present life. There is much to do on a practical level:

Convert my schedule to liberate enough time for daily office, lectio, centering prayer (done!)
1. Try to work from home instead of commuting 20 hours a week (done!)
2. Craft an appropriate rule of life and horarium (done!)
Convert my apartment into a hermitage
1. Get rid of unnecessary possessions (pretty much everything) (working on it)
2. Get rid of things whose purpose is social or for entertaining (working on it)
3. Arrange the space to support prayer and study as primary activity (working on it)
Seek formation
1. Further study in contemplative spirituality
2. Find a mentor who is a hermit for guidance on solitary life (no luck yet)
3. Nurture relationship with spiritual director & wise friends (working on it)
Find a support system of confreres for encouragement and counsel
1. On the internet? (done!)
2. Some yet-to-be-discovered association of solitaries? (done!)

Even these initial steps clearly constitute a multi-year project.

As I take each step, I'll have a question in the back of my mind. Is this step irreversible? If I'm wrong and I need to go back, will I be able to? Should I keep the option open? Is it wise to have an exit strategy, or faithless? To what extent should I abandon myself to this process, never to return?

There is a lot I can do, however, before I reach a point of no return. So I begin.

Here is a journal entry reflecting on my life as a Solitary as of July, 2009.

updated July 30, 2009

The Solitary Witness

Fri, 04 Jan 2008 01:07:46 GMT

The application asks: Describe what you believe the Solitary witness is… what it involves, and how you believe it differs from other lay vocations.

The Solitary Witness

In 21st century America, the spiritual lives of most Christians take place in the context of gathered community, and are filled with the bustle of sound and activity. We are encouraged to talk to God, talk to each other, make a joyful noise, join up, be together, engage in activities, accomplish things. For most, togetherness and activity are the essence of Christian life; silence is merely the absence of sound, solitude is a problem to be solved, and stillness is a void to be filled.

But some few people seem to be called by God to another experience. For them, the noisy activity of community life, while valued, may be distracting. In silence, they listen rather than speaking. In solitude, they give their entire attention to God. In stillness, they are content to rest in the awareness of the presence of Love.

The Bible gives us glimpses of this ancient, alternative calling; even Jesus sought God in solitude. Following his example, in the 3rd century, Anthony went into the desert, and Christian monasticism was born. In medieval times hermits were respected and sought for spiritual counsel. Although over the centuries modern monasticism has become less eremitic and more focused on community and charitable service, some few are still called to an eremitic life. Some still live enclosed in monastic communities; some live independently in private houses or even city apartments. Because of the quiet and solitary nature of their spiritual lives, few know about them.

The vocation of the Solitary is, in many ways, a hidden vocation. It is a call to withdraw from the world, to live on the margins, within the apophatic and unknowable, forsaking the comforts of social lives and accomplishments. Apart from prayer, the Solitary vocation contemplates no visible ministry, no work, no productivity, no service to the Church. The Solitary is a failure by the world’s standards, cast upon divine mercy, empty, waiting, thirsty for God’s grace.

Most people find their greatest fulfillment in relationships with lovers, family and friends, who are (usually) a source of joy. For solitaries, that same joy is found in relationship with the Holy One, and in devoting one’s life completely to continually deepening that relationship. Our aim is to discover the perfection of Divine Love, removing all barriers to intimacy with God.

Becoming a Solitary means restructuring one’s life and priorities. Most people seek relationships with loved ones, or personal achievement, and structure their lives to provide what is needed to sustain those priorities. By contrast, Solitaries structure their lives to sustain their relationship with the Holy One, above every other interest. Given this re-prioritization, one’s life takes on a different shape. The Solitary withdraws from the world’s values to immerse herself totally in God.

The praxis of the Solitary, which nurtures and nourishes this relationship, is a diet of prayer and contemplation, supplemented by reading and study, and tempered with work. For me, the vocation to be a Solitary is a particular focus of contemplative spirituality, a love-driven way of knowing God that is centered in constant awareness of the Divine presence. In the silence of contemplative prayer I focus my mind and heart totally on God, not to ask for anything, not to say anything to God, but to open my heart to listen and simply rest in God’s presence. I seek to quiet all distractions, the better to be open to God’s voice. The highest experience is simply to be aware of God’s presence and delight in it. There is no agenda other than: “Be still, and know that I am God.”

An essential part of the Solitary vocation is to pray for the Church and the world. In union with God’s desire, I see others through God’s loving gaze and face, with him, toward our suffering world in love and compassion.

God calls some people to activity, service, intellect and study. But the Holy One calls the contemplative Solitary to seek the Divine in an interior landscape, in a cloud of unknowing, in love and by faith. I do not necessarily know how or even whether God will use this vocation to the benefit of the Church, nor do I feel a need to know. Others seem to benefit from reading my journal reflections, though that is not why I write them. I am confident that God has some reason for calling me to this vocation, and will reveal it in his own time.

Rule of Life, draft #1

Thu, 03 Jan 2008 20:09:10 GMT

Below is my first pass at a Rule of Life.

In case you have never seen one, a Rule of Life is a set of guiding principles by which religious vow to live. Monastic orders all have them, and Solitaries generally compose their own. They often follow the format below. In my case it at least had to include the three traditional vows (poverty, chastity and obedience) plus a description of my praxis. Some Rules are quite extensive and specific, resembling a corporate charter with extensive provisions for daily schedules, advisory boards, etc. At the other extreme, I've seen one that was a single sentence.

For mine, I felt it was better to articulate the guiding essence of what I'm doing, and that specifics would be too limiting in this context. So this one is fairly brief, as Rules go. It may be edited later, but I will need to submit this as part of my application to the Diocese.

So here goes.

RULE OF LIFE
+In the Name of God, Creator, Redeemer and Sanctifier.

By the grace of God, I offer my life as a Solitary of God, to live in union with God, surrendering myself to be totally immersed in the mystery and love of God.

Vocation
My vocation is to seek the perfection of Divine Love, devoting my life to continually deepening my relationship with God, in a covenant of love, through prayer in silence and solitude.

Vows
By these vows, I seek to be free from hindrances and remove all barriers to perfect intimacy with God, seeking God before all else, and only him.

Poverty. Recognizing my spiritual poverty, I cast myself upon divine mercy, empty, waiting, thirsty for God’s grace.
Chastity. I vow fidelity to God and to this Rule, to love God with an undivided heart.
Obedience. I vow to empty myself of any ambition of my own, surrendering totally to God’s grace, listening attentively at all times to the leading of the Holy Spirit.
Silence. I vow to entrust myself to a “living and vigilant silence,” to listen and wait upon the voice of the Holy One.
Solitude. I vow to seek God in solitude, trusting that all I need comes from God alone.

Praxis
I will live out these vows through a practice of prayer, contemplation, reading, study and work, including:

Regular participation in the Sacraments of the Church.
Daily recitation of the Daily Office according to the Book of Common Prayer.
Daily practice of contemplative prayer and Lectio Divina.
Ongoing reading and study in contemplative spirituality.
Ongoing spiritual direction.
Regular journaling and writing spiritual reflections.
Honoring God’s presence and love in my relationships with others.
Maintaining a residence as a place of enclosure, and limiting interaction with other people to those that are necessary for sustaining a healthy, balanced life and this vocation.
Simple living and responsible stewardship, owning only what is necessary for a healthy, balanced life and sustaining this vocation, in harmony with this Rule.
Seeking physical, emotional and spiritual balance, treating myself with respect and compassion.

Verbosity

Thu, 03 Jan 2008 04:38:20 GMT

I got on a writing binge tonight, and managed to complete practically all of the written statement--seven pages single spaced. I even finally completed a first draft of a Rule of Life... having finally articulated concrete thoughts about the vows of poverty, chastity and obedience. I think I'm going to let it sit a day or so, though, before I post it here.

St. Romuald's Brief Rule

Tue, 01 Jan 2008 16:11:59 GMT

While working on the mega-application for the Diocese, I've been perusing various Rules of Life for solitaries and hermits. I was moved by this one, written by St. Romuald (d. 1027), the founder of the Camaldolese order.

St. Romuald's Brief Rule for Camaldolese Monks

Sit in your cell as in paradise.
Put the whole world behind you and forget it.
Watch your thoughts like a good fisherman watching for fish.
The path you must follow is in the Psalms — never leave it.
If you have just come to the monastery,
and in spite of your good will you cannot accomplish what you want,
take every opportunity you can to sing the Psalms in your heart
and to understand them with your mind.
And if your mind wanders as you read, do not give up;
hurry back and apply your mind to the words once more.
Realize above all that you are in God's presence,
and stand there with the attitude of one who stands before the emperor.
Empty yourself completely and sit waiting,
content with the grace of God,
like the chick who tastes nothing and eats nothing
but what his mother brings him.

The gauntlet

Mon, 31 Dec 2007 19:46:49 GMT

I received the letter from the Diocese of New York, outlining the steps I must take to be considered as an aspirant for the vocation of a Solitary.

Their newly expanded requirements are extensive, including a written statement (which I can see is going to be quite long), recommendations, evaluations, interviews, medical and psychiatric checks, and a background check. Wow.

Of some concern is a requirement that I be "debt-free." Who, in this day and age, is debt-free? Of course I am not debt-free, I own a modest condo and have a mortgage. What's this about? If I were joining a monastic community I could see it; but since, as a Solitary, I'm responsible for my own upkeep, why should the Diocese care if I am debt-free?

The written statement is to include...

a) a description of what you believe the Solitary witness is... what it involves... and how you believe it differs from other lay vocations,
b) how you learned of this baptismal witness and how long you have considered applying for it (i.e. why this ministry? why now?),
c) a review of your life, your spiritual journey, your ministry now & a copy of your Rule of Life,
d) a review of your life in community, and
e) a description of your work and income, with a signed statement that you are debt free and are registered with social security."

Looks like I'd better get to writing.

A day in the life

Thu, 20 Dec 2007 01:54:09 GMT

6:30 a.m.

Loud purring wakes me. The cat has taken on the role of hermitage alarm clock. Opening one eye, I see him staring, and can imagine him saying, "Benedicite!" in good monastic fashion. Sending a sleepy thought heavenward, I mutter, "Deo gratias..." then begin to drift back to sleep. This earns me a pat on the face from an impatient paw. So rolling out of bed, I make my way to the bathroom, shower and dress. Then, gazing out the kitchen window, silently greeting the wildlife in the backyard, I absently munch on a soy protein breakfast bar and the cat nibbles his breakfast.

7:15 a.m.

As my brain begins to simulate human functioning, my first task is the first of four Daily Offices. The Daily Office is, primarily, a practical program for reading the Bible. If you do it daily, you end up reading the entire Bible, in short daily doses, over the course of two years. Morning Prayer is the longest of the four, with two Bible readings, two canticles, and additional prayers. Sitting at my computer and tuning it to the Mission St. Clare website, I find the day's readings and prayers neatly laid out. I keep silence for a minute, to focus my attention, then begin.

The Office is not my favorite part of my practice. I don't always connect with the readings; sometimes I catch myself skimming over the words without paying attention, as my mind wanders to the day's tasks, or other things. I found that using my body in worship improves my attention. For one thing, most of the Office I will say silently, but certain portions I will sing. At first, I felt a bit self-conscious singing alone, but eventually it began to feel more natural. Sitting for most of the Office, I stand to sing, and at one or two other significant points. Using my body for worship is important.

As I begin to chant, I do my best to appreciate the words of the psalm. Often the psalms will resonate with me, when they are the words of an ancient whose spiritual journey resembled mine in some way. Today's psalm does not particularly connect, but I never know when some bit of text will leap out at me and capture my imagination, so I stay open to the possibility. The first Bible reading is better, since it contains the words to a famous aria from Handel's Messiah: "Rejoice greatly, o daughter of Zion..." Impossible to read it without thinking the music. I read each lesson slowly, focusing my attention on each thought.

I always take time at Morning Prayer for intercessions. For me, this does not mean asking God for anything. I simply hold each person in my heart for a few moments, reflecting on God's love for them. I update my list frequently, adding various people to be remembered, some for a time, some always. Ending with a prayer of thanksgiving, I rise.

7:40 a.m.

An hour is set aside for manual work. I am coming to appreciate the physical dimensions of contemplative practice. It is tempting to stay in the chair at the computer all day. But the Holy One intends us to use our bodies, as well as our minds, for praise. Being sedentary does not help me. Manual work for me mostly means housework, as I am still trying to convert my apartment into a proper hermitage. The physical activity, however light, feels good. I try to approach it with an attitude of "divine wakefulness," seeing God in all, no matter how mundane the activity might seem.

8:45 a.m.

After completing a few tasks, I take a short break to check messages online. I do not keep a precisely timed schedule, nor do I always do everything in the same order. Typically I would take an hour or more in the morning for a particular type of reading called Lectio Divina, sometimes known as "praying the reading." But today, email draws me in, and I must start my day's work. I will make time for Lectio a bit later.

9:30 a.m.

I am fortunate to have a good job that allows me to work from home most days, via the Internet. I report to work by signing on to IM and opening my email. I won't come up for air until noon.

12:00 noon

The furry hermitage alarm clock rubs my leg to remind me about lunch. I get up to feed him, then return to the computer for the Noonday Office. It is very short, just five minutes; a mid-day reminder of who I am and with whom I am in relationship. It is also an opportunity for self-examination, to get back on the right path if I have gotten off it during the morning.

At the end of the Noonday Office I always take time for centering prayer, or some other form of contemplative prayer. This is easily the most significant part of my practice, to me. To sit in silence, alone with the Alone, is the greatest joy I know. It might be anywhere from 20 minutes to an hour. I crave it. I always feel wonderful afterward.

And hungry. Sliced roast chicken, steamed vegetables and a little brown rice provide a pleasant break. I allow myself a short bit of free time after lunch, before returning to my work.

2:00 p.m.

The afternoon's work is briefly interrupted by a knock on the door. I order my groceries off the Internet, and the delivery is here. The UPS guy is right behind him, delivering cat food, also ordered off the Internet. I reflect momentarily on the fact that except for walking a few yards to my mailbox, I rarely leave my apartment on most days. I am content in my solitude.

5:30 p.m.

The Office provides for the sanctification of time. It is time to mark the transition from day to night with Evensong, the most beloved of the Offices in the Anglican tradition. Although I only sing the plainsong versions of the Magnificat, my mind often is drawn to the many wonderful musical settings I have sung in the past. I may be sitting at my computer, in my small apartment, but it is easy to close my eyes and remember the times I sang these words in the great choir of a cathedral. I know that as I sing and pray, all around the world countless Anglicans are doing the exact same thing I am doing, whether alone, or in small groups, or in great cathedrals with glorious music. I feel connected to them all.

6:00 p.m.

At the conclusion of Evening Prayer, I spend a few minutes simply being aware of the silence. Except for sung prayers, and a handful of words with the delivery guys, I will not have spoken today (though I will have emailed). I am content with that. I relish it. The silence allows me to listen with the ears of my heart.

After a light supper, I go back for Lectio. I have not spent as much time at study today as I would have liked, but there was no help for it. Today I am reading the Spiritual Canticle by John of the Cross. Its rich imagery fires my imagination and propels my heart toward my Lover, the Lover of Souls. Suddenly a sense of being loved washes over me so strongly that tears come to my eyes.

7:00 p.m.

A little more light manual work (in this case, laundry) and then free time for the evening. Most likely I will use the time on the Internet. I write to friends, other Solitaries, others who work from their homes as I do; we support one another, while understanding each other, and the place of our relationships relative to our one, primary relationship. No matter what I do, it always seems to offer an opportunity to recognize God's presence, and his love.

10:30 p.m.

The day draws to a close with Compline, a brief but beautiful way to mark the passage of time. I am especially fond of the chants and prayers for Compline. In this time, I feel that I am held close, and loved.

With this thought, I sleep, at peace.

Horarium, take two

Fri, 14 Dec 2007 19:55:46 GMT

I have revised my horarium. I found that requiring myself to do things at certain pre-set times was not working for me; I don't want to specify exact hours and then feel guilty about missing them. An exact schedule is important for a community when people have to agree to do things together; for a solitary, it's less useful, I think. A certain amount of flexibility works best for me. The objective is to fit in the Office, a couple of sessions of "mental prayer", reading and study, manual work, household and personal upkeep, and of course work. Sometimes things happen in a different order; the times might vary; but everything does happen.

Morning:
--Rise, shower & dress, breakfast
--Morning Prayer
--Manual work
--Lectio Divina, reading & study
--Work (weekdays) or journaling (weekends)

Mid-day:
--Noonday Prayer
--Contemplative Prayer
--Main meal
--Brief free time

Afternoon:
--Work (weekdays) or free time (weekends)

Evening:
--Evening Prayer
--Centering Prayer
--Light meal
--Manual work
--Free time
--Compline
--Sleep

The vow of chastity

Fri, 14 Dec 2007 16:39:54 GMT

I know there is a wide range of opinion on this topic. On one hand are traditional folk who equate the vow of Chastity with strict celibacy. On the other hand, there are hermits under vows who are married, and many Anglican monastics who are not celibate--indeed many have life partners--who believe that sex within the context of fidelity is chaste. I'm sure there are many other points of view as well.

Although I am sure they are perfectly valid, I cannot hope to articulate anyone else's position about the meaning of the vow of Chastity. I can only say what Chastity is about for me. And for me, Chastity is not about sex at all. The classical and etymological origin of the word is not about sex either; it is about purity of intent and commitment.

For me, Chastity means that I am in a committed relationship with the Holy One. And I can be fully committed to only one relationship at a time. Maybe others can do more, but I cannot. It is just not possible for me to juggle the conflicting demands, to invest sufficient emotional energy in something other than my primary relationship, when that primary relationship is as intense as the one I have chosen. To give to God a free and undivided heart, I cannot be in a committed relationship with another human being.

If you believe that you are married to God, and if you believe that sex should only happen in the context of marriage, I suppose that celibacy would then naturally be synonymous with Chastity. I don't happen to share that view about sex. I'm not into promiscuity or one-night stands; I fear that such experiences may risk demeaning, hurting or objectifying one or both participants. But two people who know and trust and care for one another, responsibly and consensually sharing intimacy and pleasure? I say: wonderful.

But the decision to enter a committed relationship is different. Knowing that I cannot do both, if I had to choose between my romance with God and a human suitor, I'd have to think very carefully. Upon prayerful reflection, I believe my call from the Holy One is stronger. I would have to focus on the One who means more to me than any other.

A New Song

Thu, 27 Sep 2007 03:55:34 GMT

Great happiness! Steven Sametz, whose music I adore, accepted my suggestion that he should set the text after which this journal is titled--a passage by John of the Cross, from Sayings of Light and Love.

We read through the piece last night for the first time, and it was one of the most beautiful things I have ever heard. I couldn't even sing part of it, because I got choked up, it was so beautiful and meaningful to me.

The conditions of a solitary bird are five: First, that it flies to the highest point. Second, that it does not seek after company, not even its own kind. Third, that it aims its beak to the wind. Fourth, that it has no definite color. Fifth, that it sings very sweetly.

This saying of John's has become a touchstone for me. He wrote it for one of the Carmelite nuns at Avila where he was spiritual director (it could even have been for Teresa, who knows?). It is advice for someone on the path of contemplative spirituality -- like me. He wrote the verses so that they would be easy to memorize, and wrote a fuller explanation that is more or less like this:

it flies to the highest point = always be aware of the presence of God

it does not seek after company = strip away everything that is not God

it aims its beak to the wind = be open and listen for the voice of the Holy One

it has no definite color = let go of your own ambitions and attachments

it sings very sweetly = sing sweetly of the most delightful love

John was not only a great poet, but also a very wise spiritual director; even though he lived four hundred years ago, I often feel him speaking to me across the centuries. And now my favorite text of John's has become the most beautiful music.

This has to be the coolest thing ever.

Diocesan developments

Wed, 19 Sep 2007 20:45:12 GMT

Had some interesting news this week about the matter of Solitaries in the Episcopal Church, and in the Diocese of New York in particular.

Since I seem to be gravitating toward the path of being a Solitary, as opposed to joining a religious order of hermits, I talked to my rector about facilitating contact with the Bishop. My rector was a bit pessimistic about it; despite lots of contact with monastic orders, he'd had no previous experience with Solitaries so he didn't imagine that the Diocese would have, either. He cautioned me not to expect much of a response.

But to my delight, this is the response he received from them:

In fact, we have 2 life-professed Solitaries in the diocese right now, a new aspirant has applied, and I know of one other priest, besides yourself, who has a person contemplating this vocation. As a result of this, the Diocese of NY submitted a report to our House of Bishops Committee on Religious Life about how we have handled this. It is emerging in the Episcopal Church, to such a degree that the HOB will be discussing it next week... with new applications, we have now done a revision of the discernment and expectations

Suddenly I don't feel quite as... solitary...!

Transactional spirituality

Mon, 02 Jul 2007 14:52:10 GMT

I have recovered from my temporary insanity. I meditated for awhile on the idea that God did not, in fact, cause my water heater to burst. That seems to have done it. I resumed my schedule today.

It is so easy to fall into the trap of "transactional" spirituality, where you worship God with the expectation of rewards. You think: if I worship God, I will be happy. If I just pray the right way, he will take care of my needs. If I just love him enough, he will save me.

The error in this way of thinking soon becomes apparent. We pray, we revel in our love for God, then we sit back and expect the rewards to roll in. But life is what it is. Things happen. Water heaters burst. Disasters strike. Loved ones leave us. Disease takes its toll. And if we were expecting to be rewarded for loving God, we can feel very betrayed.

It's easy to fall into this trap because so many faith communities use Madison Avenue marketing techniques to lure us to worship. To sound appealing, and attract members, they emphasize the spiritual benefits of joining. So we come into a faith community, not as a member, but as a customer. We expect results, as if we were buying a product. We naturally think: I will attend services, and contribute my time and money; and I will get something out of it. I will ask for things, and God will give them to me. Faith will bring me rewards.

But it just doesn't work that way.

The Holy One loves you more than you can possibly imagine. -AND- Bad things will happen to you. Both those things are profoundly true. God does not make bad things go away. Nor does he cause them.

So what's the point of faith?

The point of faith is knowing, in your deepest being, that Love is stronger than Death. That the Holy One's love for you is stronger than the worst possible thing that can happen to you. That even Death cannot separate you from his love.

And this is true, whether or not we attend services, or pray a certain way, or contribute our time or our money. You cannot earn God's love. God does not love us because of what we do. He loves us in spite of what we do. He loves us regardless. We worship and give out of gratitude for his love. We love, because God loves.

And this knowledge is what gets us through. Knowing the depth of God's love for us. Knowing that no situation is so bad that God's love cannot redeem it. This is the gift he has given us. And it was free. We didn't have to earn it.

And for me, that is certainly worth taking a few minutes each day to say Thank You.

Spiritual oobleck

Sun, 01 Jul 2007 18:59:17 GMT

Just a very quick update. A small domestic disaster (a burst water heater) wreaked havoc on both my horarium and my state of mind. I've had to spend most of the weekend cleaning up the mess so that a new water heater can be installed tomorrow. This and a couple of other disasters, financial in nature, have left me feeling angry and resentful. My attitude toward God right now is not so much "I love you" as "what have you done for me lately?" Last night I deliberately skipped Evening Prayer in order to play on Second Life. And I'm not even sorry.

Honestly, I do not see spirituality as a transaction. My fidelity to the Holy One is not based on what I get out of it. I am pretty sure this temper tantrum will pass. But at the moment, I am not in the mood to write about the gunky mess that is my spiritual life today. I just needed a break from it. Tomorrow is a new start and perhaps it will be better.

Milch?

Tue, 26 Jun 2007 10:53:44 GMT

I got distracted during Morning Prayer by the word "milch". How in the world did that make it into the NRSV? Why didn't they just say "milk"...?

"Now then, get ready a new cart and two milch cows..."

---1 Samuel 6:7