For the state of virtue is the restitution of the soul's powers to their former nobility and the convergence of the principal virtues in an activity that accords with nature.
Nikitas Stithatos.
Blessed Pelagia Ivanovna Serebrenikova was born in the Russian town of Arzamass in October of 1809. Her parents were rather too busy with the trials of raising a family, and she occupied the position of scape-goat in the family. When she was a young girl, she suffered from a long bout of fever. Some people speculate that this fever affected her brain and made her mad. Perhaps. She was also much buffeted for her dreamy ways. When she became of marriagable age, her mother married her, despite her wishes to the contrary, to a nice young man of a good family. He was industrious and ambitious, but Pelagia did not want to be married; she wanted instead to dedicate her life to Christ, her first love. She had visited St. Seraphim who talked long and privately with her, and instructed her to go to the Seraphim-Diveyevo Convent. She was always giving away all her belongings to the poor and angering her husband, who beat her unmercifully, and even chained her with heavy chains. When her firstborn child was born, she carried it in her apron to her mother and gave the child to its grandmother to raise, even giving up the joys of motherhood in an effort to follow her heart's desire. She did the same when her second child was born. Finally, she was allowed to live in the Convent, but her sufferings did not end there. Whether because she was mad from the childhood fever, or from the severe beatings, or because of secret instructions from St. Seraphim, she took up the podvig of a Fool for Christ. She would frequently visit those who disliked her the most and vex them in order to receive their buffets and insults. She would sit on the floor in the doorway so that whenever anyone came in or out, it was impossible not to step on her. Her whole life was one of self-denial and of seeking out humility by encouraging and welcoming insults and blows from those around her. She was granted the gifts of clairvoyance and of directing souls, and many visitors to the convent as well as many nuns became her spiritual children. She never did anything without the blessing of her beloved abbess. She reposed on January 30, 1884. She loved much.
I was reading Philippa's blog this morning about "What haven't you done," and I thought I'd just filch her idea, but give it a twist and make my own list of things that I have done, including the things I listed in my comment.
I’ve baked all my family’s bread and developed my own high protein recipes for bread.
I’ve watched a spider weave its web.
I’ve held a newborn kitten in my hand while it died.
I’ve raised three baby wrens when a cat killed their mother.
I've cried when family members died, and laughed when others were born.
I’ve trapped and relocated wild animals.
I’ve marveled at the Rockies while flying over head.
I’ve held my newborn granddaughter in my arms and seen the look of wonder in her mother's, my own daughter, eyes.
I’ve danced with my husband in the kitchen when there was no music playing–at least none that anybody else could hear.
I've seen my parents celebrate their 50th wedding anniversary, and they're both still around a decade later.
I've watched storm clouds gather, form, and drop their load of rain.
I've felt both pride and fear as my children started school for the first time, and again when they left home for college, and again when they got married, and again when they told me they were expecting.
I've been awakened by birdsong in the morning.
I've been lulled to sleep by the sound of frogs and crickets.
I've watched the full moon come up.
I've seen Haley's Comet.
I've felt the satisfaction of a job well done.
I've sung in a girls' trio.
I've felt the warmth of friendship.
I've seen the wonder in a child's face during midnight Pascha services.
I've read books while swaying in the breeze in the top of a tree.
I've gone fishing with my Dad and Mom.
I've felt both the emptiness of loneliness and the warmth of companionship.
I've climbed part way up Mt. Shasta.
I've felt the freshness of the morning breeze and seen the dawn turn the sky rosy.
I've watched the stars come out on a clear, moonless night.
I've walked in the shade of trees still laden with their blossoms, while the earth beneath my feet was already strewn with their petals; and breathed in that sweet, Spring freshness.
I've noticed this week that the privet has dropped all its flowers and the honeysuckle, what little of it there is this year, is past its prime. The only flower left in my yard this year is a beautiful lily. Perhaps it is appropriate that an "Easter Lily" is the last flower to bloom before the heat of summer kills back Spring's rush to life--just as we leave the Paschal season and go into another season of inner work. I got to thinking about how the baking heat of summer is just beginning and how long that season is compared to the other seasons down here in Dixie. Just as a baker mixes the ingredients and then bakes the product, Spring is perhaps the time we store up sweetness in our lives before the heat of life comes to bake us into the product of whatever ingredients we've put into ourselves.
During the deadness of Winter, we sleep. We go into ourselves and rest from the labors of Autumn's harvest work. Then, at the end of Winter and just before Spring fully arrives, Lent comes and awakens us to ourselves and to the inner work of repentance. And Spring, of course, is the Paschal season--the taking in of sweetness in our lives--the foreshadowing of Paradise--the gathering together of all the "ingredients" we've gathered during our sojourn into repentance--before returning to the baking heat of life.
During the learning seasons of Lent and Pascha, we search for and endeavor to restore our "soul's powers to their former nobility." This brings us an unutterable sweetness. This "sweetness" we experience during the season of Pascha brings very sharply to our awareness the happiness we hope to share with the angels in eternity. Happiness in this world seems to be very elusive, but that's just a "seeming." We have happiness if we just look for it. It's not easy. We're too caught up in our troubles and our failed or unaccomplished goals in life. We start out life with dreams and expectations of how our life will be; and then, of course, Life intervenes and all our dreams and expectations go down the drain while we watch with a "silent scream" on our faces, helpless to do anything about it. So, we have no happiness because we mourn the "can't be" instead of what we actually have in our hands. Actually, we're so busy mourning what we don't have that we literally cannot see what we have. We need to stop for just a minute or two (these days that can seem like a very long time) just to open our eyes and be aware, MINDFUL, of what is really right in front of us and work with that. Lent and Pascha help us to sharpen that mindfulness--that spiritual vigilance necessary for our growth into personhood--while the drudging, heat times of our lives allow us to put these things into practice.
During the "baking season" of our lives, all the ingredients we've gathered during the learning seasons of Lent with its inner work of self-awareness and repentance and of Pascha with its foretaste of Paradise and eternity come together in our souls and form us into a new person. During this time those things that we have learned--those things that we have re-discovered and have tried to grasp--come together in a "convergence of the principal virtues in an activity that accords with nature" through the practical application--the practice of them--during the drudging, working time of our lives. Who and what kind of person this is will depend on what "ingredients" we allow to remain in the mix during Lent and Pascha. The good thing is, though, we get to do this every year; so if we get the mix wrong one year, we have another chance the next year.
Today is a glorious day. Bright sun, bright blue sky, breezes bending the pines and grasses--all in all a simply bodacious day. So, I put my hat on my head and my stick in my hand and took a short walk toward the end of my dirt road in front of the house. As I approached the place where it disappears down the hill and into the woods, it reminded me of the "road less traveled." It certainly is a "less traveled" road as it winds gently down the hill and disappears into the shade by the creekside. I guess my whole life has been one, long journey down a road less traveled; but I don't mind. I've come this far; I might as well go the distance.
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth
Then took the other as just as fair And having perhaps the better claim Because it was grassy and wanted wear Though as for that, the passing there Had worn them really about the same
And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet, knowing how way leads onto way I doubted if I should ever come back
I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence Two roads diverged in a wood And I took the one less traveled by And that has made all the difference
It's been raining here. Today. Yesterday. Day before yesterday. In fact, it's been raining about four days out of every seven here. The ground is sodden. Farmers' plants are drowning and being washed out of their gardens. I can literally sit and watch my grass grow. My yard is boggy in places, and we can't mow in all this water. My thermometer read 54F this afternoon. It's WET and COLD here, and I'm dreaming of dry, sunny, warm days.
So, I've been making use of my shawl to keep my shoulders warm, and trying to learn how to project a video from my computer to our TV set. Hubby really wants to do this. It's been difficult for my old brain to wrap around this, and actually I could not even make a start of it without the patient help of my son, who is an IT Tech specialist. After many hours of frustration, we managed to get the job done. Wires are hanging down all over the place from my shelves, but I guess that can't be helped considering the way things are set up.
Right now I am listening to one of my cats "knead biscuits," and another one snoring on the back of the couch. The sky is that deep, blue/purple of early night, and it's quiet outside. The birds have gone to bed, today's storm is over, and not a creature is about. I'm taking a little time to unwind and just be. Soon I will take up my book, read a few pages, maybe make a cup of hot chocolate, then head to bed. It's been a stressful and frustrating day, and I'm ready for some quiet introspection.
Much has happened since that day. Forgiveness, for one thing; but these are my memories of that day and the few days following.
On May 14, 1988, a Sunday morning, I had stayed home from Church to finish a paper I was writing for my Master's degree. It was a "Lit" paper and it was due in a week; so, I broke a life-time rule and stayed home from Church to finish it. I had taken the phone off the hook so that I wouldn't be distracted. As it turns out, I was distracted, anyway.
Towards mid-morning, two policemen knocked on my door. When I saw them, my blood ran cold, and I thought my husband had been in an accident on the way home from Church and was hurt, or one of my children. So I sat down. I'll never forget the looks on their faces. They were holding their hats in their hands and twisting them around and around, so I knew something bad had happened. Men just don't take their hats off any more when they come into a house or meet a lady. They told me to call my brother. I said, “Which one.” They just looked at each other. They didn't know which one. So I called my younger brother, Michael. He was always the protector; the first to come to your aid and fight for you, even though he was the “baby” of the family and so much younger. He was aptly named. I guessed correctly.
I called Michael while the two policemen stood in my dining area twisting their caps in their hands and alternately looking at me, the floor, and each other. As soon as Mike answered, he said, “Josh is dead.”
A storm entered my brain, and blackness swirled behind my eyes. “Did you say, 'dead'? Who is dead? What do you mean, 'dead'?” I couldn't understand this word. What did it mean?
“Yes, there are 27 bodies burned and melted together so much that they can't tell one body from another.”
“They're all burned and melted together? They can't separate the bodies?” At this point I saw out of the corner of my eye the policemen quietly leave.
I can't describe the mental images going through my mind at that moment. Where was Becky, their mother and my sister? Where was Larry, their father? What happened? Why???
A drunken man was driving the wrong way down an interstate highway and had hit head on the yellow school bus which had become their Church bus. The gas tank exploded into a ball of fire at the front of the bus, blocking the children's and chaperons' exit. Black, acrid smoke from the vinyl seats mixed in the air with the searing flames. Screams and prayers filled the air as everyone fell and climbed over each other in a frantic effort to get out the back emergency door. Once outside, children and adults were burning. One man, his body all aflame like a torch, stood with arms outstretched as he burned, flames leaping from his whole body, and cried, “Lord, I'm coming home!” The children and adults who managed to get outside of the bus lay burning as passers by stopped and rushed to give what aid they could. Those trapped in the bus piled up near the emergency door.
When the injured had been taken to hospital, and chaos reigned, rumors abounded. Mothers and fathers rushing frantically searching for their children. Someone said that Josh had managed to get out of the bus by climbing out of a window, but he had gone back in to rescue his younger brother Aaron. When he got back into the bus, he found Aaron and pushed him out of a window as Aaron burned, then Josh collapsed.
Outside the bus, Aaron's body burned, and he lay on the ground silent while a kind passer by talked with him and did what he could until the paramedics got him to the hospital. Aaron's lungs were completely filled with black soot. He was burned over almost 90% of his body—his tissue had been literally on fire. The doctors said he couldn't live. My sister, ashen faced and moving as if in a dream, stayed at the hospital while her other son was buried. She said, “I must stay with the living.” She lived in that hospital for days and weeks until he could come home. Even then, he had to wear a body suit that covered even his face for a year to prevent the scars from becoming too thick. I don't even know how many plastic surgeries he endured. It is truly a miracle that Aaron survived. He was twelve years old, if I remember correctly.
At Josh's funeral, everybody kept coming up to me, hugging me, crying, and asking how I was. I was perplexed until someone in the family reminded me of how much I look like my sister. I hadn't realized how much until then. Becky did not attend her son's funeral. She was at the hospital tending to the living. It was a closed casket. We didn't know “how much” of Josh was in that black bag hidden in the fancy box, but we hoped it was all him and not mostly him and maybe bits of some of his friends. As the funeral processed to the graveyard, people in their yards along the road stopped and bowed their heads. Cars pulled over and stopped. I really don't remember the graveside service. My memory stops there.
Aaron survived, grew up, married and has children of his own, but he has excluded his mother completely from his life. She has not seen her grandchildren since they were born.
Josh died at fifteen years of age.
My sister Rebecca and her husband Larry divorced a few years after the accident.
Larry Mahoney, the drunk driver, was seriously injured, but recovered. He was convicted and sentenced to seventeen years in prison and served eight of those years. He lives with this every day, and the forgiveness that has been given to him from the victims' families.
It's Springtime here in north central Alabama. Just the past couple of days the privet and honeysuckle have opened their blossoms, and the air is fragrant with their perfume. The blackberries are blooming all over the place, extending this rather cool and long "Blackberry Winter." All of the narcissus and tulips long ago bloomed and died back. Except for one bush, my peonies, after a blaze of glory, have dropped their petals and are now turning their energies to developing fat seed pods.
We have a small asparagus patch up behind the house which we are trying to extend. Every spring we take a small handful of the first sprouts to enjoy with a first, spring salad or meal. Then we leave the rest to grow into a tiny, ferny forest, bloom, and set their fruit. We hope that they will drop their seeds and make our little patch larger. Asparagus in bloom looks rather uninteresting and mundane, even with it's pretty, ferny texture. However, if you get close, you can see the myriad of tiny, pale green bell-shaped flowers covering the plant. They are so delicate and unassuming in their beauty and elegance. If I hadn't stopped and gotten close, I would have missed this.
"Contemporary Orthodoxy" has been nominated for the Best Church News Blog award at Eastern Christian New Media Awards: 2009. Go here on June 1st to vote.
I had a scare this morning. Before 7 a.m., too. And fortunately before my husband left for work. I had gone up the hill just before 6 a.m. to let out and feed my chickens. I noticed last night that a hen stayed on one of the nests, so I thought I'd open the outside door to that nest to drive her off. I just don't want to deal with a broody hen. So, about forty minutes or so later, my chickens started making a horrible racket. Clucking, crowing, cackling--general chicken-calling-for-help noises. I thought at first that hen was upset with that open door to her nest, but the racket kept on. So, I told my husband that I'd brave that aggressive red rooster and go up there to see. Well, I had no more stepped through the gate when I saw a HUGE 'possum staring at me just about ten yards up the path. Okayyyy. I yelled for my knight, held my walking stick ready, and backed out of there. My knight came running with his stick and held off that possum while I checked on the chickens and that hen in the nest. (She had left it, so I closed the door.) Now, possums are dumb creatures, and it was obvious from the first glance that we were not dealing with a rabid animal, so it took a bit for this dumb creature to get the idea that he wasn't wanted. My knight kept after that possum and herded him away from the chickens. He never did run, just lumbered. Finally, he squeezed himself through the fence and disappeared.
I'd rather face a possum than a raccoon, because raccoons are really small bears and just as dangerous; and there's more of a possibility of rabies in a coon than a possum, too. But this early in the morning!! More than an hour after full daylight!! We're not in a drought, and I know there must be plenty of game around for that possum, but he was right up there getting in my chickens' grain. He was big, too. Maybe he was old and had bad teeth. Who knows. I guess I won't be so complacent from now on and go up there with just my walking stick. I'll take the extra few seconds to bring along a stronger "friend" at my side.
{Shudder} I hate having to face a wild animal. Gives me the shakes, but at least I've learned what's really a dangerous situation up on my hill and what's not. I've noticed for the past week or so that something has been getting into my storage shed up there and moving aside a heavy cement block to get into the metal garbage cans where I store the grain. I get good grain for my birds, not just that cracked corn scratch that's really "dead food." Right now I have one can of black sunflower seeds and the other can with a nine-grain mixture--no cracked, dead grains. I guess that's pretty attractive to coons and possums, but I feed my chickens as well as I can because I want good eggs, and they've scratched their yard up so much over the past eight or nine years, that it's like a desert up there. Not even the poison ivy that used to grow so lushly up there like a carpet has been gone for a few years now, so they need good food.
*Easter song performed by musical orchestra ''Stupovi'' and various Serbian singers and celebrities, dedicated to the resurrection of Christ, made as a part of an action of raising funds for reconstruction of medieval Serbian orthodox monastery ''Pillars of Saint George''
People rejoice, all nations listen: Christ God is risen! Let us rejoice! Dance all ye stars and sing all ye mountains: Christ God is risen! Let us rejoice!
Whisper ye woods and blow all ye winds: Christ God is risen! Let us rejoice! O seas proclaim and roar all ye beasts: Christ God is risen! Let us rejoice!
Buzz all ye bees and sing all ye birds: Christ God is risen! Let us rejoice! O little lambs rejoice and be merry: Christ God is risen! Let us rejoice!
Nightengales joyous, lending your song: Christ God is risen! Let us rejoice! Ring, O ye bells, let everyone hear: Christ God is risen! Let us rejoice!
All angels join us, singing this song: Christ God is risen! Let us rejoice! Come down ye heavens, draw near the earth: Christ God is risen! Let us rejoice!
Glory to Thee, God Almighty! Christ God is risen! Let us rejoice! Glory to Thee, God Almighty! Christ God is risen! Let us rejoice!
Today seems to be a day that I'm reaching for my camera. This is my second picture post on this site this morning. (If you click on the picture above, you will see a much larger version and you can see the deer better.) A little while ago I glanced out my front window and saw a family of deer crossing my front yard. They walked across the yard, the gravel driveway, and into the pine woods that surround my house. Now, having deer in your yard is really not something all that uncommon, but I think they are beautiful, and their appearance is always a Special Event for me. There are three of them, but this morning they never stood close enough together to get them all three in one shot. I think there is the mama doe and two younger ones. I have seen as many as five together with a young buck among them, but that's rare. If you'd like to see my other pictures of them, I added them to my Picasa WebAlbum "Animals Around My Place." When I saw them, I grabbed my camera, and stepped out my front door onto the porch, which is about 15' high off the ground and the deer were another 20' to 25' away, the original pictures contained a lot of surrounding, uninteresting yard, so I cropped them to get a better view of the deer themselves. This morning is a very bright, sunny day with morning temperatures in the upper 20's F warming to something like 66F this afternoon. I think the temperature at the time I saw the deer was something like 38F. These deer browse through my front yard and into the surrounding woods three or four times a week, usually during the mid-morning hours. What a treat to be living out here in the boonies!
As an experiment, I'm going to try to embed a slideshow of this "Animals around my place" Picasa album below.
Latin name:Claytonia perfoliata (syn. Montia perfoliata) It's common name "Miner's Lettuce" was given to it because miner's used to eat it as salad greens. It's an annual herb, and a dicot, which means (like a green pea) its seed has only one "storage compartment," or cotyledon. Some say it is native to California, but "also is found" outside of the state. One source says that it's a native of British Columbia, but other websites show it growing in abundance out in the wild as far north as Minnesota. Yet another site calls it an "eastern-North American wild flower." My husband, who is always thinking about and planning for the future, planted some Miner's Lettuce in a pot with garlic in our back yard. It's been back there for a few years, and I haven't paid any attention to it until this morning for some reason. It's also called Indian Lettuce and Winter Purslane. It has a round, disk-like, somewhat fleshy leaf through which the stem grows. A small, white, five-petaled flower grows on the stem coming through the leaf. I actually tasted some of our little clump, and my taste buds recognized the taste as very similar to raw spinach. I really liked it. Since it's reputed to be full of vitamin A and C and some trace minerals, I think I'll add some to our diet until it goes to seed. We'll have to spread this little tidbit around! Here's a nice little video describing this plant, harvesting technique, and a suggestion to add it to "green" smoothies. I think I'll be adding some to salads and sandwiches. Our little clump has small leaves, but other pictures and videos I've seen on the web show plants with much larger leaves. I suppose they grow larger out in the wild where they have more room to spread out.
Caution: This plant contains nitrates/nitrites which could be toxic if you eat too much. However, this is more of a problem for grazing ruminants (cattle) than for humans. I'd still not give it to pregnant or lactating mothers, or young children.
Extra: Really cool blog with videos embedded about a couple up in Minnesota who decided to eat only wild foods for a month.
Last August I blogged about gigantic orb webs. It seems that "The Year of the Spiders" is continuing. This morning I awoke to the sight of dozens and dozens of sun-catching, sparkling, gossamer webs hanging from branches, tall grass, and some spread out like a counterpane on the surface of the grass. Some hung like delicate baskets from tree branches and tall grass, catching the early morning sun and sending it back in surprising sparkles. Others were spread like welcoming coverlets over the grass, thick and cottony sloping to a perfectly round opening in the center that is the door to the spider's home. I suspect that the webs on the grass belong to Hobo spiders and funnel spiders, both of which can leave a nasty bite if you get too close. I have no idea, however, what kind of spider weaves those delicate hanging baskets.
We had a line of thunderstorms roll past us last night. Fortunately, we were on the very northern edge of the line and did not get the severe weather. We did, though, get some wind, thunder, and lightning. The lightning was in the clouds. I'm no weather expert, so I don't know the technical terms for what we saw last night, but it sure was pretty! There was a line of clouds ranging along the horizon from the south to the east. At dusk, the lightning started. I had just put up my chickens, and had gone out onto the front porch to call in my cats when it started. It was beautiful. I grabbed my camera and started just pointing and clicking. Unfortunately, in my hurry to capture the flashes of lightning, I kept moving my camera before it had time to focus and imprint the image on the card, so most of the pictures are blurred, but a couple of them were relatively good. There were three places in this line of clouds that would alternately explode with light from inside. Sometimes it would just be a quick glow, and other times a fork of lightning would accompany the glow. I've posted a few of the pictures that came out without too much blurring. I hope you enjoy them.
The other day my husband was on the phone with somebody who needed to come out to our place. Well, our place is way out in the boonies, and even locals whose families have been here for generations have trouble finding it. So, while he's giving this person directions, I heard him say, "It would behoove him to take his cell along and call us when he gets lost." Now, behoove is actually part of my husband's regular vocabulary, and I've even used it myself on occasion when I couldn't think of another word. But I got to thinking about that word, behoove. What exactly does it mean and where did it come from? I know what my husband was saying was that it would be advantageous or beneficial for this person to take along his cell phone, but just how did I know that? Behoove isn't exactly in the Wordpower exercises we did back in our school days, but somehow we had both learned what it means and how to use it.
O.E. behofian "to have need of," from *bihof "advantage, utility," from hof, past tense of hebban "to raise" (see heave).
Well, that's pretty straightforward. It means what I always thought it meant. But that last definition "to raise" looked interesting. And what does "raising" have to do with the word, "heave"? So, I had to look that up.
O.E. hebban "to lift, raise" (class VI strong verb; past tense hof, pp. hafen), from P.Gmc. *khafjanan (cf. O.N. hefja, Du. heffen, Ger. heben, Goth. hafjan), from PIE *kap- "seize;" related to O.E. habban "to hold, possess." Sense of "retch, make an effort to vomit" is first attested 1601. Nautical heave-ho was a chant in lifting.
So, the Old English hebban "to lift, raise" worked its way from Old Norse, Dutch, German, and Goth (East Germanic tribes) back again to Old English habban "to hold, possess." Where the retching comes in I have no idea, unless it's the raising of stomach contents. I can get a handle on habban as it relates to behoove. You have to take ahold of something, possess it in order to have the benefit or advantage of it. I can also see the connection between our modern understanding of "raise" and "heave." You have to lift something up, raise it, in order to heave it, or throw it. But what's that got to do with holding or possessing something, or with something being beneficial or advantageous? That's beyond me. Then there's that pesky prefix be-. I have no idea how that fits in. Well, that's my mind's meanderings around that word. It's not exactly erudite or profound, and probably not even close to being an accurate description, but that's the way I see it.
I've been reading from the Evergetinos for my Lenten reading, and the subject has been repentance. I can't help but think about my mother-in-law and how hard she tried to be a good person to all around her and failed miserably. She was a very pious Roman Catholic and attended mass daily. I know she tried her best to follow Christ's example in all she could to the best of her understanding, but still she failed in the "game of life." I can't help but wonder about this. My mother-in-law was mentally ill. She died when Hurricane Katrina washed away the house she was staying in with some friends. But as I said, she was mentally ill. She suffered from Borderline Personality Disorder with narcissistic and paranoid features. This means that she did not relate well to other people. She was a very good person down deep where she, herself, lived and existed; but her life-long experiences of both real and perceived rejection taught her that she was inferior, no good, would never measure up, was unlikeable and unloveable. She learned all her life that no matter how hard she tried to make friends, to be a good person, to fit in, it was just a matter of time before something would happen to destroy forever all she had worked so hard to build up. She could not see that her constant expectation of rejection and her deeply held belief that she really was actually at core a bad person in spite of how much she tried to be good (it didn't matter that this erroneous belief was hammered into her brain from her lifetime of rejections--how could she not believe it after such a life?) was actually pushing people away from her. She would get close to a person or two and be on cloud nine. She would be so happy that she had finally left the pain of rejection behind forever. Then something inevitably would happen, because life is not static. She would not be able to handle life's problems and troubles as well as other people because she did not have the lifetime experience of care and support that so many other people had. So, when troubles came she lashed out. She truly felt and believed that she was literally fighting for her life. And she was, actually. She was fighting for her own existence, because in her mind, when troubles came and the people around her, whom she had come to believe were her friends and loved ones, or at least people who held positive regard for her, did not or were not able to help her through the bad time, she perceived their inability, or unwillingness, to help as an attack on her. She felt that they were in effect discounting her, devaluing and dehumanizing her as a person--taking away her existence. Her sensitivity to perceived rejection increased exponentially as she grew older because of her many experiences, both real and perceived. This life-long constant expectation of rejection increased the violence of her reactions to life's ups and downs. Now, granted, not all of "life's downs" were just "downs." Some of them were serious, and she actually did get help from those around her, but by then she had so many years of bad experiences behind her that she could not believe that those who helped her did not have a hidden agenda against her, or at least secretly despised her and just "acted" nicely to her. So, finally, she drove off everyone in her life--all her childhood friends, all her siblings and relations; everyone. She lived out the final decade of her life far away from anyone who had known her when she was a girl, or a young wife and mother, or as a mature woman and grandmother; she drove away her only child and all her grandchildren. Despite all her efforts to the contrary, she simply could not believe that she was a valuable person, although she did not think in those terms. She just knew that everyone was against her and had rejected her in spite of her love and care for them--even her own family--and she continually fought against that, because to cease fighting meant to admit that she was nobody, a nothing, a truly at-core bad person and someone to be avoided like the plague at all costs. She was still unable to just relax and believe that people really did care for her; that she didn't have to constantly test their love or look for hidden agendas. She did make friends in that last decade of her life, some very good friends. However, I can't help but wonder if she didn't still feel terribly alone. How can one not feel alone when one has irrevocably lost one's past?
Unfortunately, my mother-in-law was so ill that she was beyond recovery; but I wonder if she could have been an entirely different sort of person if someone in her youth had cared enough to stay with her, to be someone to whom she could always point and know loved her and accepted her--most importantly accepted her--in spite of everything? Could such a person exist? Has anyone the strength required for such a herculean, life-long effort? Perhaps not. I know people who tried to help her and failed over and over again until they had to stay away from her for their own health.
How hard it is for those who do love and care for a person like my mother-in-law, and I believe there are many people in society today who suffer as she did. How hard it is to constantly take the paranoia, and sometimes downright abuse, and continue to show care and concern. How much can those who love such a person be expected to endure? Do they not, also, suffer to see her suffering? Are they not also doomed to a life of regret for the "what might have beens"?
May God, the Lover of mankind, have mercy on us and teach us repentance.
My husband planted a Lenten Rose last year. It's a small plant that hugs the ground and grows in clumps. Its color can range from cream to purple. Actually weeks ago (it was the night I first saw the armadillo), I noticed that our Lenten Rose had bloomed. It was early January and there was actually some snow on the ground when I noticed it's pure white blossoms shining in the dark when I went outside to investigate some critter noises. (I took a picture of it then, but lost it.) It was pure white then, but it's got a pink blush along the edges and some pale green toward the center now. It's Latin name is Helleborus orientalis; and it's in the ranunculus family, which means it's cousin to buttercups and something called a crowfoot. (I'll have to look that one up.) They are apparently native to parts of Eurasia including Greece, Turkey, and the Caucasus. (Odd how many flowers we take for granted come from Turkey. If my memory serves me well, tulips and many roses had their beginning in Turkey.) Well, our little Lenten Rose is still small, but I hope it grows and spreads so much that we have to divide it and plant it all over the place. We have plenty of woodsy, shaded places to put it. Wouldn't it be nice to walk through the woods and suddenly in the middle of winter come across a blooming clump of Lenten Rose?
A late thought: This plant is also called a Christmas Rose because it sometimes blooms in December. I wonder if it's a coincidence that I first noticed it blooming in early January right around the time of Christmas on the Old Calendar?
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
It's a gray, cold, rainy day here at my place today. This has been a long and cold winter. Part of me is glad to know that this means that there will be fewer mosquitoes, ticks, and other pesky insects that like to eat up our vegetables. My daffodils and grape hyacinths are up and blooming in the yard, though, creating bright splashes of yellow and intense points of blue on the hillside behind the house. It's a day for staying inside and looking outside.
Spring is coming and with it my hens are beginning to lay more. Always, a couple of weeks before Great Lent begins, my hens start laying. I have only ten hens now, and lately I've been getting four or even five eggs per day now, with the occasional day of getting only one or two. (That's because hens lay every 30-some hours and not every 24.) So, today I get seven eggs. I've always said those hens were "heretic chickens." I shouldn't be surprised; they're Marans--a French breed. They must be Roman Catholic! My daughter, who doesn't go to Church any more, loves them since she gets most of the eggs during Lent. Oh, well.
I love this picture. I took it of my blossoming rosemary plant last year when we had a bit of snow. It's so quiet and promising. To me it speaks of hope, perseverance, meekness, and endurance. Sometimes the simplest things are the most beautiful and profound.
Blessed Pelagia Ivanovna Serebrenikova was born in the Russian town of Arzamass in October of 1809. Her parents were rather too busy with the trials of raising a family, and she occupied the position of scape-goat in the family. When she was a young girl, she suffered from a long bout of fever. Some people speculate that this fever affected her brain and made her mad. Perhaps. She was also much buffeted for her dreamy ways. When she became of marriagable age, her mother married her, despite her wishes to the contrary, to a nice young man of a good family. He was industrious and ambitious, but Pelagia did not want to be married; she wanted instead to dedicate her life to Christ, her first love. She had visited St. Seraphim who talked long and privately with her, and instructed her to go to the Seraphim-Diveyevo Convent. She was always giving away all her belongings to the poor and angering her husband, who beat her unmercifully, and even chained her with heavy chains. When her firstborn child was born, she carried it in her apron to her mother and gave the child to its grandmother to raise, even giving up the joys of motherhood in an effort to follow her heart's desire. She did the same when her second child was born. Finally, she was allowed to live in the Convent, but her sufferings did not end there. Whether because she was mad from the childhood fever, or from the severe beatings, or because of secret instructions from St. Seraphim, she took up the podvig of a Fool for Christ. She would frequently visit those who disliked her the most and vex them in order to receive their buffets and insults. She would sit on the floor in the doorway so that whenever anyone came in or out, it was impossible not to step on her. Her whole life was one of self-denial and of seeking out humility by encouraging and welcoming insults and blows from those around her. She was granted the gifts of clairvoyance and of directing souls, and many visitors to the convent as well as many nuns became her spiritual children. She never did anything without the blessing of her beloved abbess. She reposed on January 30, 1884. She loved much.
