The Springtide Table

Come gather at the springtide table,

Thou seeking-searching-sorrowing mass,

Who knows that joy is good for hearts

But peace inside thee cannot have.

 

This chamber deep is dark indeed;

Soft— let thy eyes adjust.

For on this bare and loamy ground,

The stillness breeds pure milk, honeyed-trust.

 

White flowers strewn through cloths and sticks

Whispering wisdom old and ever-new:

Love my beauty, then thou shall eat my truth.

How many fear this, they cannot do.

 

“Why is this table stone-broken such?

Whose bread-crumbs spilled around?

How can we be fed in banquet shrouded be?”

Spoke the brows that frowned.

 

Hail the few, with dirty palms and soles,

Falling silent now in awe.

Those who know they cannot know

Themselves, near to mysterious table shall draw.

 

How strange here is this food, 

Changing one and one to three?

Could it be that on these thrones, 

now right-side-up are we?

 

“I am,” says Wooden Table,

 

“The humblest of them all,

Foundation of each festival,

Sure safeguard when ye fall.

Rest long and run fingers on my broken cracks;

Reach far and join hands with those ye love.

Begin this starry-foretold feast,

Oh guests of Eternal Fullness Above.”

 

Come gather at the summertime table…

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To Him of the Seasons

Praise

To Him of the Seasons,

That hidden Strength behind wind and thunderstorm.

 

Who hushed the elder birds,

Only that they might be a lively chorus of fledglings.

Who allowed hands to cut back the barren brush,

Only that the uncovered earth might kiss the seeds into fourfold fertility.

Who darkened morning and froze the sandy shores,

Only that the sun might swell in splendor by cracking them open.

 

Who encircles my fragile limbs in everlasting mercy,

That my heart might be free to run home

Again.

Running Without Arriving

“If one could run without getting tired, I don’t think one would often want to do anything else.” (C.S. Lewis, The Last Battle)

The weather gods have been good to little Omaha, Nebraska this week. We began with classes called off for two “ice-days” in a row and have closed up the weekend with three days that reached the high 40s. Spring broke the rules to speak to our sun-deprived faces. Do you ever sit back and wonder at the weather? Truly miraculous, I tell you.

So, there I was on my jog today, carried away in the game where I imagine where each person is going, and what they are going to do with the rest of their lives. Perhaps you’ve played it before as well. The sun began to set, and my exuberant thoughts turned to where I was inevitably going, formulating a vague gameplan for the evening. I didn’t get very far though, because as I explored the mental catalogue of potential delightful activities, I began to wonder at why I enjoy my hobbies so much. (And now you know why I’m so absentminded 90% of the time.)

What is it about running? What is it about writing? Why music? Why painting? Why reading?

Five strides later, the answer came to me as clear as day: at the end of it all, I never truly arrive anywhere. Whenever I lose myself in my hobbies (a welcome loss indeed), there is a lingering sense of “almost, but not yet.” That’s precisely why I always reach for more– one more beautiful jog, one more enlightening book. Prolonging the runner’s high is like begging that gloriously orange sun not to set, trying to escape the inevitable swallowing-up.  “For this world in its present form is passing away” (1 Corinth. 7:31). All races, essays, songs, artworks, books, hours, years, and even lifetimes must come to an end.

Ernest Hemingway has said it thus: “For a true writer each book should be a new beginning where he tries again for something that is beyond attainment.”

That is how I found myself bumping into yet another paradox of our humanity. Though I cannot (yet?) enjoy the perfect jog or write the perfect essay (and goodness knows every five-year-old is closer to the perfect painting than I am), the fire inside still urges me to pursue these things.  My hobbies cannot teach me perfection, but that can teach me about beauty and goodness. The higher builds upon the lower. As nearly always, St. John Paul II fulfills my reflection by guiding me to the things I knew that I was missing, but couldn’t see clearly enough to name:

“Saint Bonaventure, who in introducing his Itinerarium Mentis in Deum invites the reader to recognize the inadequacy of ‘reading without repentance, knowledge without devotion, research without the impulse of wonder, prudence without the ability to surrender to joy, action divorced from religion, learning sundered from love, intelligence without humility, study unsustained by divine grace, thought without the wisdom inspired by God‘ ” (John Paul II, Fides et Ratio)

In other words, I’m not running for nothing. I’m doing it so I can be a better gift.

Our Country ‘Tis of Thee

I have this (crazy) habit of sprinting the last leg of my morning run, which happens to be right in front of Omaha’s Central High. Over time, I’ve forged a sometimes-spoken bond with the certain cluster of students who typically gather around the sidewalk before the first bell rights.  They cheer, wave, and offer high-fives; I wink, offer a big smile, and sometimes flex my arms to make them laugh. There are no words to fully explain how this little ritual fills my heart, and I can only hope that they start their day off with a chuckle as their “Creighton lady who lives across the street” ungracefully and sweatily scampers by.

Friday morning, however, I reached the Dodge hill to find that the my high school friends had staged a full-fledged Trump protest in front of their school. There are just two things I’d like to say on the matter:

  1. To the little girl who was holding the “WE ARE ALL VALID” sign: Yes, yes you absolutely are “valid.” It breaks my heart that there are many legitimate reasons that many groups of people feel afraid, angry, and dismayed right now, and I absolutely believe that my success on this earth will be measured by how well I respect, protect, and love you. Each of us would do well to remember how undeservedly blessed we are just to be here. And lastly… I also remember how high school feels. So, in case you forgot a few important things when you woke up this morning, know that you are beautiful and made for great things. Go live out your beauty in this world– we desperately need it 🙂
  2. To the group of boys with the graffitied, X-ed out Trump sign: I understand and applaud the desire to protect yourself and your loved ones, but my short 21 years on this earth have convinced me that that’s not the answer. We don’t have to respect the person, but we do need to respect the office. Brave men will practice what they preach, and God knows we need more brave men.

To all who are adults–which includes you, college freshman– remember who each other is. Remember that Donald Trump is someone’s son, and Hillary Clinton is someone’s daughter. Remember that Trump supporters, Hillary supporters, and those who abstained from voting are all the little kid of some mom and dad out (or up) there.

But above all, remember your deepest identity:

“It is a serious thing to live in a society of possible gods and goddesses, to remember that the dullest most uninteresting person you can talk to may one day be a creature which,if you saw it now, you would be strongly tempted to worship, or else a horror and a corruption such as you now meet, if at all, only in a nightmare. All day long we are, in some degree helping each other to one or the other of these destinations. It is in the light of these overwhelming possibilities, it is with the awe and the circumspection proper to them, that we should conduct all of our dealings with one another, all friendships, all loves, all play, all politics. There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal. Nations, cultures, arts, civilizations – these are mortal, and their life is to ours as the life of a gnat. But it is immortals whom we joke with, work with, marry, snub, and exploit – immortal horrors or everlasting splendors.

 

The GRE Manifesto

A quality that I’ve always admired is purposefulness. Time is something we can never get back (and who knows how much we even have left!), so there’s a real power in being able to confidently answer the question, “Why am I doing this?”

The great majority of my next few days will be consumed with studying for the GRE. (Joy of joys!) I’ve been joking to a few friends that I’ll be cafe-hopping through Omaha over my Fall Break. Except I’m not joking… And I may even hit up Council Bluffs if I’m feeling especially adventurous one day. But though I “just kinda know” this is something I need to do, I looked in the mirror this morning and understood that I needed to articulate my purpose more clearly. My lovely journal began to catch the words, but then I realized that was not nearly honest or humble enough. This was also something that I wanted to own up to publicly.

Therefore, let it be asked, “Why am I doing this”?

Starting with the least important reason, I’m doing this for myself. I’m doing this for the part of Clara that wants to know she can persistently pour herself out into a goal and reap the fruits of her hard labor. Theres’s definitely a dose of the stuff those cheesy motivational quotes are made of running through my veins. It’s invigorating, actually.

Secondly, I’m doing it for my friends, at home and abroad. The amount of support and encouragement I’ve received from my dear friends lately has taken my breath away. If you’re reading this, please know that I cherish those hugs and kind words when the going gets tough. I cannot wait to be there for you when you need the same strength! On a deeper level, I’m doing it for my friends abroad– especially holding in mind my little brothers and sisters whom I taught during Encuentro. I know there are multitudes who do not have as many doors open as I do; I’ve danced bachata with them and been humbled to live amongst them. That is why I embrace whatever small things I’ll have to give up these next few days. What an honor to be in these shoes!  May I never forget the joyful charge: to whom much is given, much is expected.

Thirdly, I’m doing this for my family, my rock. There’s something sublime in knowing you are prayed for. There’s something empowering in knowing you are loved no matter what. (There’s also something really appealing about not living on your couch next year, mom and dad!)

And finally, I’m doing it for Him. I’m doing it because it was His Hands that set me in this place, and His Love that placed these burning desires within my heart. We each have a mission, or as I like to think of it, a heavenly, beautiful story that He writes through us as we journey home. So, even should this next chapter not quite work out according to my plans, I know I’m not the one who knows best (thank goodness!) and I truly believe that there is a peace that surpasses all understanding.

It’s pretty simple, really, this is just me answering Your call with “yes.”

 

(Confession: I had to google “manifesto” before publishing this to make sure using the word wouldn’t make me a comrade…).

Sursum Corda

Feet bounce over cloud-grey concrete;

The morning ritual has begun.

Giving them the rhythm of my habitual soundtrack,

I’m lulled into my tiny, selfish circles.

Whatever is true, whatever is noble…

I raise my eyes from running feet to running river,

To panting breeze, to energetic sun, to intrepid shores.

They say God wrote us two love-letters:

The Bible and nature.

Sursum corda.

In a surprise leap, the Missouri River banks transform before my eyes

Into the raging Cliffs of Mohr, then the lay skirts of the Potomac,

And finally, the lapping shores of Cotton Lake.

Oh God, who makes the mountains melt…

Come wrestle us and win.

Surely the Beckoner of the breezes mingles sands and stones into one;

Nature’s natural innocence is more easily redeemed than ours.

But wait! Friend, look at me again with your ocean eyes.

I think He wrote three.

Flowering Forth (For When Prose Fails)

How deeply do the rivers run

In each impassioned soul.

When twins revealed in books begun,

It’s homeward bound we flow.

~~~

So join with mine,

Thy powerful tides,

In seeking Wisdom’s sacred sign.

To wrestle on high,

Hope shall always prevail;

Come, take delight in

Thy sweet surprise again!

~~~

Finally at night, the chaste, cool rivers

May gardens overflow.

Peace to you who firmly plant;

Flowering forth you somehow know.

~~~

Silently looking into your heart,

Hush and receive unanswerable Love.

For in the High Secret

Of head on chest,

The mystery supper’s antiphon sung;

“Find thy rest, for

Now our Gardener has come.”

~~~

Sacrifice praise to our forever Friend,

Beautiful Goodness Ever-True.

At last, when resounding harmony marries:

Behold! He will make all things new.

Russell Kirk on Perfect Government

“We are not made for perfect things, and if ever we found ourselves under the domination of the perfect government, we would make mincemeat of it, from pure boredom”

–Russell Kirk, The Best Form of Government

What a funny thing to say. What could be undesirable about perfect things? Just ask anyone a week after they aced that test, about 3 days after they bought their new favorite outfit, or a month after they moved in to their dream house. It’s upside-down– things do not perfect us. Things, systems, routines…they all get boring. We perfect us. “You are to be perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect” does not mean that God has instituted the perfect system of representation and taxation amongst His angelic hosts. It means that God is love. Therefore, we are made to be perfected in love. The best form of government (of culture too) then, is one that enables us to love, to freely choose the good of the other.

This puts a whole new spin on things, no?

As mentioned before in my last post, I’m beginning to realize the deep social wisdom of the common prayer that begs for the grace for “taking this sinful world as it is…not as I would have it.” Perfect is boring; love alone is infinitely interesting.

To properly conclude, one of the most incredible passages I’ve yet encountered:

At the back of every discussion of the good society lies this question, What is the object of human life? The enlightened conservative does not believe that the end or aim of life is competition; or success; or enjoyment; or longevity; or power; or possessions. He believes, instead, that the object of life is Love. He knows that the just and ordered society is that in which Love governs us, so far as Love ever can reign in this world of sorrows; and he knows that the anarchical or the tyrannical society is that in which Love lies corrupt. He has learnt that Love is the source of all being, and that Hell itself is ordained by Love. He understands that Death, when we have finished the part that was assigned to us, is the reward of Love. And he apprehends the truth that the greatest happiness ever granted to a man is the privilege of being happy in the hour of his death. (Prospects for Conservatives, 21).

Walt Whitman on Miracles

Oh God beyond all praising, we worship you today!

As I sleepily sit in a white rental minivan with my dad at the helm, zooming through the streets of Paradise Valley back to the airport, nothing seems short of a miracle. A mere three days of family Easter vacation in this desert oasis have reminded me that first things come first, and a first thing is to grab the person closest to you and give them a hug.

For me, the second thing is to share the wonderful things that strike me in the things that I read. I love poetry because it attunes our minds to the melody of the everyday. It sings from the order of leathery airplane seat rows, juxtaposed to the reckless glory of dawn unable to be held back by a thin airplane pane, the extra squeeze in a brother’s hug before we depart to our respective terminals towards our respective homes, and the unexpectedly cheery grin of the flight attendant as he dispenses breakfast cookies, lemon waters, coffees, and the occasional cocktail (oh what a mystery at 6am.) As Alain de Botton declares in The Art of Travel (a jolly brilliant book on which I frequently bubble over with mirth by quoting passages to my poor traveling companions):

Journeys are the midwives of thought. Few places are more conducive to internal conversations than moving planes, ships, or trains. There is an almost quaint correlation between what is before our eyes and the thoughts we are able to have in our heads: large thoughts at times requiring large views, and new thoughts, new places (pg. 54.)

And believe me, with the mind of an economics major, I mean to grasp and share this point in all its practicality. We know we’ve found the truth when it changes something. It begins to make all things new. So what do these mini-miracles mean for the way we go about our everyday lives? It’s pretty simple: our concrete reactions. Life sweeps us up in a new dance each morning (I’m pretty sure this is the reason that music, rhythms, and poems resonate so soundly with us.) A real gem for your Easter morning:
Miracles
By: Walt Whitman

Why, who makes much of a miracle?

As to me I know of nothing else but miracles,

Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,

Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,

Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of the water,

Or stand under trees in the woods,

Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night with any one I love,

Or sit at table at dinner with the rest,

Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,

Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer forenoon,

Or animals feeding in the fields,

Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,

Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so quiet and bright,

Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring;

These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,

The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.

 

To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,

Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,

Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with the same,

Every foot of the interior swarms with the same.

 

To me the sea is a continual miracle,

The fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves—the ships with men in them,

What stranger miracles are there?