Photo Editing

Hmm, maybe I am not so bad at this after all.

Inter-Religious Project

The religious service I attended was an Aarti at noon on Saturday the thirtieth of April at the Hindu Temple of Kansas City. I heard much about Aartis, which are a form of Puja, before coming to the Hindu temple, but I was still quite unsure as to what I should expect when I arrived. Upon entering, I was first asked if I was a volunteer, at which I smiled and said that I was there to explore. My companion and I took off our shoes at the caddy and proceeded into the Temple, were we immediately saw an idol of Ganesha, before which offerings had been laid and incense was burning. The priest, Atul Trivedi, gave many blessings before and after the Aarti, where the people being blessed would come, prostrate themselves before him and touch his feet, and he would bless them, chanting and drawing symbols in the air over them or on their heads.

When I entered the worship area I was immediately floored by the beauty of the splendorous arrays of flowers and brilliant colors which adorned the alter and the idols around the room. There was a tile walkway down to the alter and around it, but the rest of the floor was covered in a white carpet, on which people sat and prayed or prostrated themselves before the idols on the alter, namely before Luxmi, the idols of Radha and Krishna and those of the trinity, Brahma, Vishnu and Shiva. People walked around the alter praying to the idols, which I found fascinating, given that all things are in their idea of reality Brahma, and therefore, to worship at these idols is to worship idealistic manifestations of sirguna Brahma, but more “enlightened” Hindus will not worship at temples at all to recognized the all-pervasiveness of the Godhead.

The Temple was open on Saturday from nine in the morning to nine in the evening, and all throughout that time people were having various pujas said for themselves or their loved ones, but the Aarti is an offering of fire from the whole community to the idols, blessing the various devas with the lamps which one person said took on the power of that deva. The people all took turns blessing the idols with the fire and then blessing themselves while two young men rang the bells on either side of the alter constantly. While the priest chanted, the people offered up fruit to be “sacrificed” to the idols, though I was quite curious as to what they mean by “sacrifice”. Do they mean that the idols need sacrifice to continue existing? It could be as a memorial of the sacrifice which began the world, which would make sense, as the food seemed like it was blessed rather than sacrificed, and the people consumed it after it had been blessed.

The pure devotion the people showed to these idols was striking and brought to my heart the question of why such devotion is locked away from sight in the Catholic of today, as if such devotion was embarrassing. I was ashamed for more than a moment at the death of living ritual in the spiritual life of the American Church, and in almost all of modern Christianity, which has aligned itself with secularism out of fear of condemnation by skeptics and atheists. If one were to ask a Roman Catholic what they thought of ritual, the answer would probably contain a contempt for ritual and even a denial of its efficacy, when in fact ritual has been a life-giving element of the Faith throughout its history, only eschewed during this present century as being outdated, what one could say was the effect of Protestantism on Catholicism. This, I am am sure is a heresy of some kind, which denies the efficacy of ritual and form in worship, spilling over into the disregard for proper ritual shown by priests and quasi-faithful alike.

Ritual does have meaning, which is both a blessing and a curse, for it means that while I was able to appreciated everything that was there, and sense the presence of a very devoted though misguided worship, I could not participate fully in the rituals. Rituals do indeed have meaning, and thus to consume the food that had been offered to those idols would have been a mortal sin for me as a Catholic, as would have blessing the idols been. When we as Catholics make the sign of the Cross, we are blessing ourselves in a profound way that imprints on our very bodies the sign of the Passion. When we say the Most Blessed Name of Jesus, we should cross ourselves and bow in reverence. In more orthodox churches, Catholics don't have pews, they move around freely and prostrate themselves in front of icons and burn candles, offering up a sacrifice of fire as a single undivided focus of the will for whatever intentions are needed. The ritualism of the Catholic Faith is a ritualism which is lethally potent, and which desperately need to be recognized in a culture of Catholicism which has trapped itself into the contradiction of a “uninvolved” Mass and yet bristles when anyone so much as says “Dominus vobiscum”. The physical form of a sacrament is just that, sacramental, and Catholics can reconcile new-age philosophy and the place of man as the pinnacle of creation by recognizing the quasi-sacramental nature of creation itself, this very flesh on our bodies, the air we breathe. Hinduism is a religion rich in ritual and overflowing with symbolism, which contributes to the joyful worship I witnessed these people engaging in. Throughout history, Catholicism has done what it is meant to do in the world: take what men have reached through the light of reason and created reality and enlighten it with the revealed Truth of Christ. The treasures of Hinduism should not be neglected, for they are true treasures indeed, which need to be polished before they can shine forth their brilliance. Therefore, let us as Catholics seek out diligently the good, the true, and the beautiful in Hindu ritual and integrate it organically into our own traditions.

The Wine of Sleeplessness

3:24 am

It is night, and all around me, the world sleeps in blissful rest. I wish I could sleep. I wish I could rest my weary soul and mind, but both are uneasy tonight. There is something about staying up all night that is much like drinking. The giddy elation, the clumsiness, the foggy brain, the inability to concentrate; all theses symptoms are from the twin diseases. I have not drunk my fill in a long time. I take pride in my ability to hold my liquor, but for my own sake I eschew the practice with great seriousness. When well practiced, the alcohol of no-sleep sits in the bloodstream without the effects of drunkards. It is mostly, though, that the drunken man will let himself go unto the pleasures of the flesh and loose himself in the intoxication of the wine, and his drinking will have been in vain. I sit in the dark and sip my drink quietly while the drunken pair downstairs collapse from exhaustion and the fumes. They are not well practiced, and have not found that path this liquor takes the poets of the world. During these times I like to sit back in a chair with a cup of tea at my elbow and a writing pad beneath my fingers. At least a computer, if nothing else, to save me the trouble of writing it down later. This is the time when my soul and my mind are unfettered, and fly free, yet they are uncontrollable, and savage in their whims. I can never be too serious when I am drinking, or I risk putting weight on the decisions and conclusions I made when I was in my drunkenness. I often drink when I am wrong inside, when the warrior has failed in his mission, when the philosopher is lost for a cause, when the artist has lost his inspiration, and when the child has lost her joy. When the poet within me is tired, and can not call to God for aid in the miserable constraints of his philosophical mind, I let it go, I let my soul free. It is dangerous. Even now I know that any moment my soul could fly down tunnels of dark and wicked thoughts, where it is not fit for the intellect to trod, and blasphemy, who knows what I shall uncover in the morning, when my hangover is complete? But I must listen, and when the muse sings, I must try to write down her notes as fast as I can. Muses take many forms, mine sings to me. What she sings I long for, I desire it beyond all my wildest dreams! But I am human and lack the skill of gods. I can only attempt to copy on a scroll in measures and notes the sound of air and sea and sky I hear, muddled, yet powerful, in my soul. But back to my drinking. It is hard to let my soul free; for it has grown so used to my body that it calls it home. This is a disturbing and troubling thought to me. I know my soul belongs beyond the flesh, in the realms of things unseen. Where dwell Truth and Beauty and all her sisters of undying Virtue. My soul belongs to worlds such as this, yet it has become content with the physical realm, and desires to remain in it forever, uncompromising. A lesson my soul must learn now. I can not be comfortable in this body, not yet. This is what made those self-mortifying saints so amazing, that they forced their souls to disavow their bodies. Of course we must honor our bodies as temples of the living God, but our souls must be comfortable with forsaking the body for a time. It is our reward, and we shall receive it restored and remade to transfigured glory when we rise again. This is another reason why I drink. I find in the hazy realms where my mind wanders and flirts, a sort of distressing calm, a drunken enlightenment, and all I can do is write. I do not comprehend what I put down on paper, but pray that it may prove to be of a greater end. I can not wait for the sun rise. It is the moment when all the waiting of the past night fades and if swept up by the joy, the great bliss and elation of the pink dawn rising on the horizon. When the blazing sun pierces the sky with its first rays, it pierces me too, right through the heart. I feel so deeply when I drink, as well as feeling dead. My emotions become bees buzzing in the background of my subconscious, but they sting me twice as fiercely when out of control. I am full of wine, but sober. Another characteristic of alcohol is that it makes heat diffuse through your skin twice as fast as normal. The immediate warmth of the liquor is fleeting, and false heat; which is why, I suppose, I drink hot tea with my wine at night, clutching the mug in my fingers, and letting the steam warm my face. I can not stop drinking tonight, rather, I can, but I will not. It is not often my senses are so alert after so much consumption. I know in my mind and heart that to drink in excess is to trip and fall into a death, into a vanity where all the fruit is rotten off the tree. When removed from its source, any good thing becomes sour, as the second fermentation from fruit to wine turns to the bitter vinegar that soaked the throat of our Lord at calvary. My meditations and my wanderings can not stray too far from home, or I may loose myself in the sins of the intellect. God guide my thoughts! I am beginning to feel drunk, for my limbs are week and my eyes are closing in fatigue. I can not imagine how decrepit and distortedly shallow my thought must convay themselves on paper, for I am beginning to become drunk. This is a hard and often times undoing part of the process. I must not allow myself to become drunk, for I loose any wealth I may have gained from this night, nor can I stop drinking, for my vigil is not yet complete and all the seeds are not yet planted. Tonight I prepare for the new year alone, for I will not have a chance to remain sober once the night of revelry comes to had and I will become drunk for want of solitude. But there is a time and a place for everything, and I pray that I may find it in myself to with hold the liquor from myself and sleep when such a time comes. God help me, for I do not trust myself.

4:15 am

Ah, and it is time to review my situation. I examine myself with great fervor often in my sorry state when the passions of the flesh have seized me and done their will. It is like the tears and vows a warrior makes after having failed in a mission, or having been defeated in battle, when he falls to his knees in remorse. But a warrior with all the vows and tears to fill an ocean, will fail and fail again if he does not train for the battles to come. Sloth and gluttony can not be companions in the same house as Virtue. She will be disgraced by them and become a wraith in the shadows of her own halls, where instead there should be sunlight. I must learn to distance myself from my body, this weighty block of brick! For what use is a body if not employed for the kingdom, and how can it be used for the kingdom when it can not lift itself? Aquinas was an obese man, but I have an inkling that it was not due to gluttony that his belly was large, rather that his mind was employed far more than his limbs. There is no limit upon me now, and thus it is will that is at fault in this situation. My reason is employed to the basest degree, and when I neglect my will, the rest of my life suffers. But perhaps, and I think it most probable, that the source for this predicament can be found in the deeper realms of my self; my spiritual life. I am most lax in this area of my discipline, and I have a theory that if I were to spend as much time in prayer as I do eating, I would exceed my current amount of prayer time by sixty percent! What a revolutionary thought. I am reminded, though, of something my father told me; that the movers of this world are the ones that take their dreams and act upon them. Until plans and ideas are put to action, that's all they are, plans and dreams. I can make plans for myself all I wish, unless I go past my conceived limitations and comfort realm, I can not make anything of myself. It is an interesting state I find myself in. I dislike the future, I've always said so. I will never go someplace willingly if I can not see the road ahead of me, and my usual plan of attack is to ignore the path entirely. I must grow up, though. I am becoming more and more aware of the fact that I can not live for myself. I am obligated to fulfill my days in the service of those around me, and that is not a reality I have been willing to accept. I have looked for and dreamed of a future where the only person in it is me. I never imagine a mob of people, only a select few with whom I would pour out my soul. But again, I must now learn how to grow up. It will not be easy, I know this and it's probably why I have been so childish in the past, but it must be done. Lord help me to grow up. I know I'm late, dreadfully late, and like the foolish brides maids, I deserve no pity; but I cling to your word; “God's graces are new each day. They are new every morning, they are new every morning,”

Poem of the day

And I know...

I stare out my window at night,

when the rain falls down,

down in torrents and tears.

I hear its drumming and know that I am alive

I breath in the cold air and let the moisture hit my lungs

and I know I am alive

I stand on the hillside

when the wind howls over the plain

like a hound chasing its prey

I feel it surround me and I feel as if I could fly

I close my eyes and spread my arms, bracing myself against it,

and I feel like I could fly

I lay on the sand

in the summer by the sea

When the sun saturates my every breath

I hear the waves lapping at the shore, and I know I am safe

I feel the sand beneath me, warm and rough and solid

and I know I am safe

I sit with my family

at the table, or in prayer

our chatter, our laughter, fills me

I hug my brother, and I know I am alive

I cry with my father in anger and in grief

and I know I am alive

Poem of the day

The Lie

It is dangerous to know me

dangerous to love and to try to understand me

for I am as intangible as the mist

to grasp me is to grasp at a wave as it crashes against the shore

or embrace sand, or take a drink of moonlight

It is dangerous to come close

into the secret chambers of my heart

what will you find there?

Will you find the image you have engraved in your mind?

Will you behold a vision pleasing to you?

Or with the air of unfamiliarity

will you flee in terror?

If you wish to love me

beware

Better it were that you should run far from me

remain untouched by me

for I am like Shiva, the destroyer

I take up the hearts of men

and for a time all is peace

but then the world comes to an end

O God,

am I caught in a never-ending cycle of death?

Doomed to destroy those who come seeking life?

Oh men of this earth,

why do you come to me seeking beauty?

That which you seek is the image of the divine

I will be your undoing

seek God instead

for in me is the road down to Sheol

into despair.

My lovers do not dally with me for a time

and then move on, unaffected.

They assimilate me into their hearts

and see nothing but me in their futures

So that when I disentangle myself from their arms

I take with me their souls

and they are left

broken and shattered

Poem of the day

Before Morning Prayer

It is not easy to get up usually
but for some reason
I rise from my bed,
from my warm, comfortable bed,
with a sense of peace.

My shower is filled with my usual worries
and I lean against the walls
expecting to feel despair.

And yet from my lips comes
"Oh Lord, Thy will be done"
and I realize
that no suffering is beyond You
no pain is so menial that You
do not feel it also.

As I dress and behold myself in the mirror
I feel a calm, and a warmth in my heart
for this fleshy body
Your Divine Image hidden by our perception

Though a hard heart may keep me safe
I wish to be as soft and vulnerable
as the downy breast of a dove.
Cultivate Your Peace in Me.

Jesus, You are so good to me
though my heart be heavy at times
though the world seems too much for me
though I feel I cannot go on,
You are there

You are the first, my Lover
my Divine Lover who thirsts for my soul
I desire You, permeate my being
I love You, be with me until the End

How wonderful it is to just praise You
But I should probably go pray
for my intentions and the intentions of others
and because I really should finish my rosary

Poem of the day

A Song for the Warrior of my Heart

Son of the mountains,
Warrior of the high places,
Where do you set your alter,
That I might go with you to worship your God?
On what high peak do you make your home,
So that I might ascend unto the mountain of spices,
And see the lights of the morning sun with you?
O Eternal light which dwells in you,
There is no ill which you can set your arms to,
For a healing is in your touch.
There is strength in your limbs
and power in your voice.
I touch my head to the grass at your feet
In homage of your scars.
O warrior of the Word incarnate,
O lover of love,
Let my heart be as brave as yours,
Let my strength be as true.
For just as gold is tested in fire,
So are acceptable men in the furnace of humility.
Your hands are a mystery to me,
Too great are their movements for me to understand.
They move with power,
They have struck down evildoers in their stride,
And have conquered the deceivers.
Before them men crumble and are laid to shame.
But in them I find my refuge,
In them I find peace and a quiet joy.
Like the sigh of an autumn zephyr on the wind,
Is the sigh of content which escapes from my lips,
When those hands are my safeguard.
My brother, my warrior,
Defender of my honor,
I watch you through my veil,
and peer at you through the cascade of my hair,
So that you will not see,
this trespass of my eyes.
May my mind be free of wickedness,
and my heart free of evil thoughts.
For just as impure water makes a flower wither,
so too impure thoughts are as poison to the soul.
Oh my brother,
Let me never shame myself in the council of your peers,
nor before the gates of thy father's house.
Let there be one mind between us,
and one will.
Perfect love casts out all fear,
therefore, let there be only joy within our hearts,
only a devotion to the sacred heart,
which burns our sin away.