I am 38% Idiot.
I ain't too bright. But all those other idiots annoy the hell out of me. I may not be the brightest bulb in the bunch, but at least I know my limits.
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The Violence of Divine Love
El Greco: Christ Driving the Money Changers from The Temple
I have been thinking about singleness lately, more intently than I have in the past. Specifically, I have been thinking about how one transcends one's singleness, about how one goes about getting into a relationship, how one gets outside of oneself. It seems to be in the air, and on the web, at least among the bloggers whom I read. Mikaela regrets the things she hasn't done, the missing of cues, while at the same time recognizing the artistic value of unrequited love. Seraphic Single seems to have gone wobbly over a long-dead German fighter pilot from The Great War, while simultaneously asking "Are All The Good Ones Dead?"
Closer to home, my friend La-La, who has sworn off dating and relationships, announced to me, "I'm doing so well alone!" She has a thing for artistic bad-boys, the macho-men, epitomised by Ernest Hemingway and Russell Crowe.
My own reaction to the stormy conclusion of my relationship with B. was one of relief, along with the even scarier thought, "If I do it right, I'll never have to get involved with anyone else again. Ever."
Our inclinations have been to view relationships as encumbrances ("entanglements" being the word I have used in the past), as a loss of freedom, a sacrifice of one's individuality for the sake of company, or companionship, or affection.
What's going on here? Especially amongst the Catholics!
****
I began writing this post several days ago and began to find myself bogged down in it, unable to progress. Additionally, I found that what I was writing was turning acrid as I wrote, and I couldn't figure out what was going on.
Then, the other morning, I realized it: I wasn't being true. For so long, I have been convinced that I was doing well on my own, that I do not want intimacy with anyone, that I have overlooked the change that has begun in me. Writing from that perspective, I found myself relating not experiences or truth, but rather fear and exaggeration.
In one of the installments of my travel diary I mentioned my unexpectedly finding a joyful resonance in the heart of Paris, of finding something I desire, and feeling called to explore that desire more fully. I have gone from wanting nothing to wanting something that I do not know yet, that I have to explore, and pursue, and work toward, knowing that I am not able to have it until many things are discerned, and sorted out, and arranged. I must be patient.
No longer am I doing really well alone; I suddenly know I want something, and I cannot have it yet, but I am impatient, fearing that I will change my mind in the interim, or that the opportunity will pass, or that something will arise to prevent my getting what I want.
That is the difficulty of singleness: it is being in a state of awaiting further instructions. This waiting implies that one must be willing and ready to go in the direction God asks, in God's time. Patience is essential.
****
This post was originally turning into a rant about how difficult it is: about how many expectations there are on everyone in the dating world, about how difficult it is to trust anyone, to open up. These things can be true, but they aren't actually the Truth from my experience.
I remembered this when I got a kind e-mail from an old friend who lives far away, a very warm and gentle woman who has been a friend for about 7 years; she wrote me to see if I was safe after she saw reports of the steam-pipe explosion in Manhattan the other day. In her message she wrote, "Please know that although I haven't been in touch you are always in my heart."
It was evidence to me that God knows what I need, that He loves me and shows me his love through friends far and near. I had been in the midst of writing an increasingly bitter piece about singleness, one not based on my actual experience, my actual reality, but rather based upon fear, and suddenly I was presented with a loving and unexpected message.
****
In an article I came across recently, Francis Cardinal George, OMI, the Archbishop of Chicago, says that "People's biggest fear is fear of love." Past betrayals lead to mistrust, of ourselves and others. They compound and become self-fulfilling prophecies: the more attuned I am to ways in which other people can hurt me, the more likely I am to feel hurt and to perceive others as aggressors or enemies.
The terrifying thing about love, about intimacy, is the violence of it: I'm not speaking here of physical violence or anything of that sort. I mean simply that violence of becoming known, both to ourselves and to others. The tearing down of boundaries and illusions, the smashing of idols and fantasies, these are almost unbearble to those who seek to hide, to remain in darkness.
When I reflect on the Gospels, I ponder on the violence of God's love. The wicked and good alike recognize this from the start: Herod knows the threat that the baby Jesus poses as he orders the slaughter of the Holy Innocents (Matt. 2:16); Simeon prophesied that Jesus would be the cause of the fall and rise of many in Israel (Lk. 2:34); the demons cry out when Jesus approaches, recognizing who He is (Mk. 1:24). He loves His temple enough to drive out the money changers with a flail, to overturn tables.
God, in turn, responds to our desperate and violent appeals (Matt. 11:12), and we are reminded, in the image of battle between Life and Death, between Heaven and Hell, that the Gates of Hell shall not prevail against the Church (Matt. 16:18). In the latter, it is important to notice who is attacking: it is not Death laying siege to Life, but the other way around.
****
What is the fear we have of Love? I sense that we are steeped in an idea of the individual that leaves us viewing others as competitors, as threats, as obstacles to us achieving our goals and desires. More importantly, we are afraid to know ourselves: our weaknesses, our failings, our dependencies. These are often most clearly revealed to us in relation to others, especially to those we love.
It is our natural desire to please those we love, but it is inevitable that we will have conflicts and disappointments at some time in any relationship with another. It is in those moments that we come to see our errors, our defects of character, our vices and the areas in which we need to grow in virtue. We would rather not be reminded of these things, however, because we tend toward perfectionism, toward believing that we are always "getting better" as time goes by.
Christoph Cardinal Schönborn, O.P., the Archbishop of Vienna, addresses this very idea in his book With Jesus Every Day, a collection of catechetical lectures he gave in 2001-2002 on Christian morality. When discussing sin, he points out that sin "can be truly perceived only to the extent that we recognize the presence of forgiveness." (p. 133)
It is only in the confines of Love that we even become aware of our shortcomings. "Insight into one's sin is possible only when one knows that one is not condemned...." (id.) Our humanity is revealed to us in relation to Humanity; our love shows us our need for Love.
Not only does the violence of this Love reveal our need of it, but it stands to intoxicate us, to cause us to lose control, to go chasing after it. The loss of control, the abandonment of self that is experienced in love is terrifying: one feels distracted, giddy, vulnerable, and young. It is always new, it never seems familiar, even if it has been felt before. One almost doesn't mind being awkward, being flawed, being human.
****
John Singer Sargent: Madame X (Madame Pierre Gautreau)
That last point, perhaps, goes toward both Mikaela's and Seraphic's situations; I've been in situations similar to the ones each of them mentioned.
I am always missing cues, or not knowing the right approach, or feeling awkward, and I am certain it has probably kept me from relating more closely to women I've felt attracted to in the past; and yet, in those awkward moments I was most human, and when working up the courage to get outside my awkwardness, I found that the effort was appreciated, the gesture was well-received. Sometimes the sentiment was even reciprocated.
As for Seraphic's situation, I, too, had crushes on people from the past. I had a powerful crush on Madame X, the woman depicted in John Singer Sargent's striking painting at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I always used to make a point of visiting her first whenever I went to the museum, saying, "Let's go say 'hi' to my girlfriend," if I were visiting with a friend.
The woman I was seeing at the time I got sober and who first took me to the church where I now sing had a picture of Madame X hanging on her wall in her room. That little detail made her even more endearing to me. "Madame X? I can't believe it! She's my favorite painting in the Museum!"
I also had crushes on Edna St. Vincent Millay and Dinah Washington; the former wrote a sonnet that I found very endearing:
Not in a silver casket cool with pearls
Or rich with red corundum or with blue,
Locked, and the key withheld, as other girls
Have given their loves, I give my love to you;
Not in a lovers'-knot, not in a ring
Worked in such fashion, and the legend plain—
Semper fidelis, where a secret spring
Kennels a drop of mischief for the brain:
Love in the open hand, no thing but that,
Ungemmed, unhidden, wishing not to hurt,
As one should bring you cowslips in a hat
Swung from the hand, or apples in her skirt,
I bring you, calling out as children do:
"Look what I have!—And these are all for you."
Fatal Interview: Sonnet XI
The latter sang, most memorably to me, "What A Difference A Day Made" with a touch of sadness in her voice, almost as if she were a bit surprised at having found love, at having been lifted, in the course of "twenty-four little hours," out of loneliness. There is a near-disbelief in her voice that reveals a vulnerability and a human need for love and affection.
Of course, all three women were long dead, and the things that I love about them are the public faces, the parts remembered by history; I didn't have to endure the terror of intimacy with any of them, the risk of heartbreak, the asking of them and the giving of myself to them.
To answer Seraphic's question, "are all the good ones dead?" bluntly, I would say, "yes, they are. All that are here, among the living, are the sinners, the fallible, the human. Some are desirable, and kind, and intelligent, and brave, and trustworthy, while others are not; but all are most assuredly alive."
I have been thinking about singleness lately, more intently than I have in the past. Specifically, I have been thinking about how one transcends one's singleness, about how one goes about getting into a relationship, how one gets outside of oneself. It seems to be in the air, and on the web, at least among the bloggers whom I read. Mikaela regrets the things she hasn't done, the missing of cues, while at the same time recognizing the artistic value of unrequited love. Seraphic Single seems to have gone wobbly over a long-dead German fighter pilot from The Great War, while simultaneously asking "Are All The Good Ones Dead?"
Closer to home, my friend La-La, who has sworn off dating and relationships, announced to me, "I'm doing so well alone!" She has a thing for artistic bad-boys, the macho-men, epitomised by Ernest Hemingway and Russell Crowe.
My own reaction to the stormy conclusion of my relationship with B. was one of relief, along with the even scarier thought, "If I do it right, I'll never have to get involved with anyone else again. Ever."
Our inclinations have been to view relationships as encumbrances ("entanglements" being the word I have used in the past), as a loss of freedom, a sacrifice of one's individuality for the sake of company, or companionship, or affection.
What's going on here? Especially amongst the Catholics!
****
I began writing this post several days ago and began to find myself bogged down in it, unable to progress. Additionally, I found that what I was writing was turning acrid as I wrote, and I couldn't figure out what was going on.
Then, the other morning, I realized it: I wasn't being true. For so long, I have been convinced that I was doing well on my own, that I do not want intimacy with anyone, that I have overlooked the change that has begun in me. Writing from that perspective, I found myself relating not experiences or truth, but rather fear and exaggeration.
In one of the installments of my travel diary I mentioned my unexpectedly finding a joyful resonance in the heart of Paris, of finding something I desire, and feeling called to explore that desire more fully. I have gone from wanting nothing to wanting something that I do not know yet, that I have to explore, and pursue, and work toward, knowing that I am not able to have it until many things are discerned, and sorted out, and arranged. I must be patient.
No longer am I doing really well alone; I suddenly know I want something, and I cannot have it yet, but I am impatient, fearing that I will change my mind in the interim, or that the opportunity will pass, or that something will arise to prevent my getting what I want.
That is the difficulty of singleness: it is being in a state of awaiting further instructions. This waiting implies that one must be willing and ready to go in the direction God asks, in God's time. Patience is essential.
****
This post was originally turning into a rant about how difficult it is: about how many expectations there are on everyone in the dating world, about how difficult it is to trust anyone, to open up. These things can be true, but they aren't actually the Truth from my experience.
I remembered this when I got a kind e-mail from an old friend who lives far away, a very warm and gentle woman who has been a friend for about 7 years; she wrote me to see if I was safe after she saw reports of the steam-pipe explosion in Manhattan the other day. In her message she wrote, "Please know that although I haven't been in touch you are always in my heart."
It was evidence to me that God knows what I need, that He loves me and shows me his love through friends far and near. I had been in the midst of writing an increasingly bitter piece about singleness, one not based on my actual experience, my actual reality, but rather based upon fear, and suddenly I was presented with a loving and unexpected message.
****
In an article I came across recently, Francis Cardinal George, OMI, the Archbishop of Chicago, says that "People's biggest fear is fear of love." Past betrayals lead to mistrust, of ourselves and others. They compound and become self-fulfilling prophecies: the more attuned I am to ways in which other people can hurt me, the more likely I am to feel hurt and to perceive others as aggressors or enemies.
The terrifying thing about love, about intimacy, is the violence of it: I'm not speaking here of physical violence or anything of that sort. I mean simply that violence of becoming known, both to ourselves and to others. The tearing down of boundaries and illusions, the smashing of idols and fantasies, these are almost unbearble to those who seek to hide, to remain in darkness.
When I reflect on the Gospels, I ponder on the violence of God's love. The wicked and good alike recognize this from the start: Herod knows the threat that the baby Jesus poses as he orders the slaughter of the Holy Innocents (Matt. 2:16); Simeon prophesied that Jesus would be the cause of the fall and rise of many in Israel (Lk. 2:34); the demons cry out when Jesus approaches, recognizing who He is (Mk. 1:24). He loves His temple enough to drive out the money changers with a flail, to overturn tables.
God, in turn, responds to our desperate and violent appeals (Matt. 11:12), and we are reminded, in the image of battle between Life and Death, between Heaven and Hell, that the Gates of Hell shall not prevail against the Church (Matt. 16:18). In the latter, it is important to notice who is attacking: it is not Death laying siege to Life, but the other way around.
****
What is the fear we have of Love? I sense that we are steeped in an idea of the individual that leaves us viewing others as competitors, as threats, as obstacles to us achieving our goals and desires. More importantly, we are afraid to know ourselves: our weaknesses, our failings, our dependencies. These are often most clearly revealed to us in relation to others, especially to those we love.
It is our natural desire to please those we love, but it is inevitable that we will have conflicts and disappointments at some time in any relationship with another. It is in those moments that we come to see our errors, our defects of character, our vices and the areas in which we need to grow in virtue. We would rather not be reminded of these things, however, because we tend toward perfectionism, toward believing that we are always "getting better" as time goes by.
Christoph Cardinal Schönborn, O.P., the Archbishop of Vienna, addresses this very idea in his book With Jesus Every Day, a collection of catechetical lectures he gave in 2001-2002 on Christian morality. When discussing sin, he points out that sin "can be truly perceived only to the extent that we recognize the presence of forgiveness." (p. 133)
It is only in the confines of Love that we even become aware of our shortcomings. "Insight into one's sin is possible only when one knows that one is not condemned...." (id.) Our humanity is revealed to us in relation to Humanity; our love shows us our need for Love.
Not only does the violence of this Love reveal our need of it, but it stands to intoxicate us, to cause us to lose control, to go chasing after it. The loss of control, the abandonment of self that is experienced in love is terrifying: one feels distracted, giddy, vulnerable, and young. It is always new, it never seems familiar, even if it has been felt before. One almost doesn't mind being awkward, being flawed, being human.
****
John Singer Sargent: Madame X (Madame Pierre Gautreau)
That last point, perhaps, goes toward both Mikaela's and Seraphic's situations; I've been in situations similar to the ones each of them mentioned.
I am always missing cues, or not knowing the right approach, or feeling awkward, and I am certain it has probably kept me from relating more closely to women I've felt attracted to in the past; and yet, in those awkward moments I was most human, and when working up the courage to get outside my awkwardness, I found that the effort was appreciated, the gesture was well-received. Sometimes the sentiment was even reciprocated.
As for Seraphic's situation, I, too, had crushes on people from the past. I had a powerful crush on Madame X, the woman depicted in John Singer Sargent's striking painting at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I always used to make a point of visiting her first whenever I went to the museum, saying, "Let's go say 'hi' to my girlfriend," if I were visiting with a friend.
The woman I was seeing at the time I got sober and who first took me to the church where I now sing had a picture of Madame X hanging on her wall in her room. That little detail made her even more endearing to me. "Madame X? I can't believe it! She's my favorite painting in the Museum!"
I also had crushes on Edna St. Vincent Millay and Dinah Washington; the former wrote a sonnet that I found very endearing:
Not in a silver casket cool with pearls
Or rich with red corundum or with blue,
Locked, and the key withheld, as other girls
Have given their loves, I give my love to you;
Not in a lovers'-knot, not in a ring
Worked in such fashion, and the legend plain—
Semper fidelis, where a secret spring
Kennels a drop of mischief for the brain:
Love in the open hand, no thing but that,
Ungemmed, unhidden, wishing not to hurt,
As one should bring you cowslips in a hat
Swung from the hand, or apples in her skirt,
I bring you, calling out as children do:
"Look what I have!—And these are all for you."
Fatal Interview: Sonnet XI
The latter sang, most memorably to me, "What A Difference A Day Made" with a touch of sadness in her voice, almost as if she were a bit surprised at having found love, at having been lifted, in the course of "twenty-four little hours," out of loneliness. There is a near-disbelief in her voice that reveals a vulnerability and a human need for love and affection.
Of course, all three women were long dead, and the things that I love about them are the public faces, the parts remembered by history; I didn't have to endure the terror of intimacy with any of them, the risk of heartbreak, the asking of them and the giving of myself to them.
To answer Seraphic's question, "are all the good ones dead?" bluntly, I would say, "yes, they are. All that are here, among the living, are the sinners, the fallible, the human. Some are desirable, and kind, and intelligent, and brave, and trustworthy, while others are not; but all are most assuredly alive."
Labels: Singleness, Sobriety, Tha Dogz
7 Comments:
- said...
-
Brilliant post! You speak well of a delicate balancing act between living well the life we presently possess as single...and the truth that our hearts long to be held dear to another. One hopes for it, and at the same time dreads the risks involved. And sometimes wonders if the peaceful routine of single life isn't perhaps just fine as it is.
My life as a single woman is full. I am not bored. But I want to be dear to someone. I am in fact dear to many, but it has eluded me to become especially dear to someone who is especially dear to me. - UltraCrepidarian said...
-
I know exactly what you mean. Exactly.
It would be so cool if all of us could get together for Beerz sometime. :-)
Misery loves company, although I find that the resultant bonhomie of being in good company dispels said misery. Or maybe it waz the beerz.
Warren - Fallen Sparrow said...
-
Warren,
Misery loves company, and joy does all the more.
Despite what the old polka song says, "In heaven there is no beer, that's why we drink it here," I like to think that all those Belgian Trappists are still contentedly brewing away in their celestial home.
It would be so cool if all of us could get together for Beerz sometime. :-)
In that day, should I find myself glorified in body and joyful in heaven, I will celebrate my surprise and amazement by finding you and buying the first round. Here on Earth, with my fallen body and soul, I will stick to coffee; should you find yourself in New York you are welcome to join in the adventures of the St. Philip Neri Fun Club.
Blessings,
FS - UltraCrepidarian said...
-
Ahh! Coffee is good.
Well, I make excellent Coffee. With the Beanz fresh roasted at home.
:-)
W - Seraphic Single said...
-
Thanks, Fallen Sparrow! Great reply.
- Fallen Sparrow said...
-
Well, thank you. I do my best....
- Mikaela D'eigh said...
-
Dear Mr. F. ~
Excellent post! Thank you for continuing this most interesting and timely discussion.
I will meditate on the subject a bit at Holy Hour tonight, as well as pray for all singles and hopefully will be able to post something tomorrow.
Blessings.
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