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| The view out my window, Thursday, April 18, at 6:15 p.m. |
It’s beginning to look a lot like Christmas — and since my blog was on hiatus in December, I only shared our latest letter from our elfin correspondent Siberius Quill via Facebook. Since I believe we currently have more snow today that we had then, I thought I share it with you today! Season’s Greetings!
Past letters may be found in the archive.
Back in early December, I announced that I was suspending this blog and taking it off-line. I likened my writing career thus far to standing on my head for show: requiring modest skill; impressive at first, then amusing, before becoming repetitive, uncomfortable, and unnatural. I even went so far as to declare, “ I won’t call myself a writer again until I write something worthwhile, and I don’t know what it will be.”
Those who know me well know I have a tendency to take myself entirely too seriously. I was in a bad spot at the time: way too busy at work, home, and church; unable to make a satisfactory start on the annual Christmas letter; and unhappy in my work. Some several things needed to give — but this blog was not one of them.
As a full-time husband, father, and director of communications, this little corner of the internet is one of the few places I actually do write stuff that people read. The people who matter most to me are here, but they aren’t the only ones — consider that this tiny, rhyming prayer is the most viewed post on my site, in large part due to readers (or skewed search results) from Russia. A favorite web site of mine, The Art of Manliness, posted an article awhile back entitled, “How a Man Handles a Miscarriage.” I read the post and the appreciative comments, before adding a comment of my own and sharing a bit about our little Jude. Men came and read, and though they left no comments, who knows whom it touched?
In fact, if I want to be truly serious about writing, I would not permit myself to be limited by the potential for monetary gain. A few weeks ago I was looking through the Catechism of the Catholic Church to see specifically what the Church teaches about property rights — and learned that while she makes no bones about supporting the right to private property, she is insistent that we steward our property and talents for the greater good:
“In his use of things man should regard the external goods he legitimately owns not merely as exclusive to himself but common to others also, in the sense that they can benefit others as well as himself.” The ownership of any property makes its holder a steward of Providence, with the task of making it fruitful and communicating its benefits to others, first of all his family.
Goods of production — material or immaterial — such as land, factories, practical or artistic skills, oblige their possessors to employ them in ways that will benefit the greatest number. Those who hold goods for use and consumption should use them with moderation, reserving the better part for guests, for the sick and the poor (CCC 2404 and 2405).
I read and re-read it: Goods of production, including practical or artistic skills, “oblige their possessors to employ them in ways that will benefit the greatest number … reserving the better part for guests, for the sick and the poor.”
A “serious” writer , then, should speak the truth, regardless of gain or loss, for the good of those who need to hear or whomever will listen.
It’s good to be back.
My daily commute has been a blessing of late: relatively smooth and expeditious, with just enough windshield time to pray a morning rosary, then listen, think, and free associate to my heart’s content. This morning’s mental ramble started as I got into the car and backed from the driveway, already reciting the Creed. I made my way slowly through our neighborhood, announcing my morning intentions as I went (the conclave to select the new pope first and foremost today) and turned toward the freeway. As I rumbled over the railroad tracks, I recalled it was Tuesday, and thus, the Sorrowful Mysteries. I thought of that humble title of the Holy Father: the Servant of the Servants of God. I thought of Pope Emeritus Benedict XVI, and Blessed John Paul the Great before him — each a suffering servant and an image of Christ. I thought of the college of cardinals contemplating, voting, perhaps praying that theirs was not the name called. Heavy is the head that wears the crown…
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Last night on the way to Brendan’s wrestling banquet, Bren, Gabe, and I were discussing the presidency.
“Did you know,” said Gabe, “that calling the president ‘Mr. President’ isn’t something you have to do? It’s just what George Washington asked to be called, and now everyone else does it, but it’s not a rule or a law.* So a president could ask to be called whatever he wanted. Wouldn’t it be funny if the president said he wanted to be called King?”
“It would be even funnier if he wanted to be called King George,” said Bren.
“Did you know,” I said, “that people supposedly wanted George Washington to be king after the Revolution, but he refused? The story is that he didn’t want to win independence from one king just to install another.”
* * * * *
Also on my commutes, especially in the evenings, I’m listening to an audiobook version of The City of God by St. Augustine. It’s a wonderful recording, not least of all because the reader is an older British man with a wise, witty, and kindly voice, who occasionally runs out of wind on Augustine’s longer rants, adding a touch of saintly exasperation to the reading.
The language and writing style are poetic and complex, but the book, thus far, is full of insight and contemporary relevance. For instance, after describing the folly and decline of Rome from many different angles, citing as evidence the descent of morality and the rise of materialism, celebrity, and indecent entertainment, St. Augustine ties the fall of the empire specifically to the fall of liberty and the rise of domination as the fundamental value of Rome.
This makes sense to me, then and now. Liberty recognizes the value of the individual; it can be defended, or in peaceful times, it can be content to live and let live. Domination, on the other hand, is aggressive and discontented by nature; it consolidates power and values the state. Augustine asks if a person might be considered more blessed who had modest wealth, sufficient resources for survival, and peace, compared to one who has untold riches and power and constant fear of war, assassination, or overthrow. So, too, a superpower? At what point did we aspire to be the greatest nation on earth, and what has that cost us?
* * * * *
In November of 1935, Ernest Hemingway wrote a commentary for Esquire magazine called “The Malady of Power: A Second Serious Letter.” Hemingway was a great observer of the nature of men, and of war, and he knew another great war was coming to Europe. He closed the piece with the following:
Whoever heads the nation will have a chance to be the greatest man in the world for a short time — and the nation can hold the sack once the excitement is over. For the next ten years we need a man without ambition, a man who hates war and knows that no good ever comes of it, and a man who has proved his beliefs by adhering to them. All candidates will need to be measured against these requirements.
What makes our previous two popes such powerful witnesses? Both were humble servants who led a flock of millions with steadfast conviction and the utmost humility — Blessed John Paul II, in his willingness to be diminished by illness and age on the world stage for the edification of the world, and Benedict XVI, in his willingness to diminish himself and exit that stage for good of the Universal Church. As we wait for white smoke, and the cry Habemus papem in Rome, I am longing for a Servant of the Servants of Liberty here at home.
*According to Wikipedia, our first president was originally addressed as, “His High Mightiness, the President of the United States and Protector of their Liberties,” but critics thought it “smacked of monarchy.”
On the Feast of St. Valentine, priest and martyr, I wrote but did not share:
It’s Valentine’s Day—our chocolate-covered, cherry-filled, and rose-scented celebration of what passes for romance in a wonderless age. Named for a priest who was imprisoned and beheaded for secretly marrying second-century Christians, today Valentine’s Day has renounced its sainthood, elevating desire and satisfaction over its patron’s self-denial and sacrifice. Perhaps it is not surprising—we’ve watched the rise of the vampire romance in recent years, and February is a vampirous month, bloodless, pitiless, cold, and pale; short-lived and yet interminable. Ironic that it should be “the month of love,” since no one loves February except by accident, birth, or misunderstanding.
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| Hoarfrost on cherries, St. Michael Catholic Church, St. Michael, Minn. |
As a boy, I liked to stand on my head. It was only natural, I suppose — I was built like a caramel apple, more stable when inverted. First I learned to hunker down with my hands on the floor and my knees behind my elbows, then tip forward into a head-and-hands tripod, and slowly extend my skinny legs. I would wobble and sweat and then do my best to make my final tip-over seem controlled and intentional.
As I got stronger, I kept my legs together and controlled my descents. As I got stronger still, I would start by lying on my belly with my hands in pushup position, the elevate my hips into pike, smoothly drawing my toes along the floor until my torso was inverted, then open like a jackknife to point them at the ceiling.
After that, I began to time myself. The well-worn carpet in my childhood living room provided little cushion, so at first this was not easy. Two minutes. Five minutes. Ten minutes or more. I learned to relax unnecessary muscles and shift my weight slightly to my hands to relieve the pressure on my head. It got to the point that I could watch TV to pass the time.
Then I stopped. It wasn’t that I had “maxxed out,” strained my neck, or switched to handstands. It was fun to learn, fun to perfect, fun to challenge myself for awhile — but I just didn’t see much sense in it anymore. Today, I can still stand on my head on demand (and I do so now and again, just to prove it to the kids). But I feel better with my feet beneath me.
I’ve told myself and proclaimed on this blog that I am a writer, and that I’m working on a book. I have done a fair amount of reading, and very little writing. Aside from our annual Christmas letters, I write virtually nothing of interest to anyone I love. I am not a writer, but a director of communications. I am also a father and a husband, and blessed to be so — but most of my waking hours are spent standing on my head for a living, looking at the world in a way that’s begun to feel unnatural. I do it because I can, I do it on demand — but it doesn’t seem to make sense anymore.
In the parlance of my peers, I need to “re-tool.” I don’t know what’s next. I won’t call myself a writer again until I write something worthwhile, and I don’t know what it will be. But I am eliminating distractions, one by one. This blog, though I have loved it, is one of the things that will go.
This is my last post for the foreseeable future. This blog will taken offline soon. If you wish me well, wish me luck.
Archangel Stomp 