Forgive me friends, for beginning this evening by quoting something I wrote lo these many ... er.... days ago:
A priest and mentor from back up in Portland told me a story once from the time he was in formation. One of the priests responsible for the seminarians told him that if he were to continue on the path to ordination, he needed to learn to let go of the things of this world. And so he was told to give something away every day. Every. Single. Day. For a year, every single day that year, he gave away something that had been his - a pencil, a coffee mug, a book - but always something tangible, and not simply money or time. The symbolism was powerful, because eventually he would have to give up something most tangible of all - his own life, and ability to make choices about it. He would lie prostrate on the ground, face down, arms outstretched, and metaphorically hand over his very life in service to God and to others. If he struggled to hand over even a favorite pen, how would he manage to hand over that which is immeasurably more dear?
Now way back on Sunday when I put fingers to keyboard and cast that diary out onto Little Blue, I didn't think a whole lot about that passage. It's a story I've heard from him a few times - when he first told me about it, in a homily some time later, a few retellings on retreat days Our Little Parish(TM) held for folks joining the Catholic Church in our diocese, and I'm pretty sure it's even in an article he's written somewhere. It's his story, but through the rehearing and now retelling it's been woven into my life, my narrative, a story about this priest friend of mine, a narrative that's a metaphor of dying to self, of letting go of anything that keeps me bound to things of this world.
I like metaphors. I could use them in writing 'til the cows come home, and my grad school research is paved with them.
(OK. A bit too much metaphor? Yeah - I think so too.)
But just one more - and one worth noting - the things of this world sure have a way of creeping up and biting one in the @$$. It's such a sweet little story, the seminarian who gave a pencil away, or a book, or a pair of gloves. Heartwarming. And surprisingly difficult, I'm finding, especially when done with intent. Backing into it by accident raises even more interesting dilemmas.
On Sunday, before writing that little piece, I gave our tickets to the San Jose Earthquakes vs. LA Galaxy MLS game to someone at our parish. We'll be out of town then, and don't need them, so they'll be auctioned off at a fundraiser later this month. Easy.
On Monday, I took a copy of a book I'd just finished (for which I'll write a review later this week, maybe) to a classmate. There's a section in it on the social justice implications of the Roman Catholic liturgy, and he's all about liturgy - and social justice. I'd picked up a copy of the book at a conference last year, then totally forgot I had it when I purchased this semester's texts. I tripped over it on Saturday while cleaning, and figured he might find some value in it.
Tuesday - I was having lunch with a very good friend of some very good friends - but someone I really didn't know at all, and who's moving cross-country this weekend. A "nice to meet you and see you someday maybe" sort of thing - My introvert-but-engineer self was plotting things to talk about if we ended up sitting awkwardly in silence, and then I remembered something I'd seen of what he'd written once, and realized that I had a pretty obscure book on just that topic. Took it to lunch and gave it to him. (And we had NO trouble talking through lunch and then some, thankfully. Gracious, bright, thoughtful person indeed.)
And now it's Wednesday. Glancing at my diaries here earlier this afternoon after work, thinking about how to pull them to my own site I'm constructing (NOT leaving again, just cross-posting), a thought fluttered by - "I wonder if I could do that?"
Just One Thing.
Can I let go of one thing per day? I really don't know. It's not about the stuff. God knows that I have more stuff here than I need, want, or will ever use. That's even after filling up the car a couple of times with stuff and taking it to a donation site nearby. And really, that's not the point. You see, it's not a matter of a tax write-off, or of trying to avoid having to clean up clutter. It's the practice of letting go. It's a shift in my relationship to stuff, but it's a spiritual practice as well.
May 1st was, in retrospect, not a bad day to begin the exercise, even if I didn't know I was doing it. As noted above, May 2 and 3 each involved handing over books - one was a duplicate, indeed, but the other shaped how I think about some things, and was even a copy with my own scribblings in it - a physical thing, but a bit of myself I'm still a little uneasy about letting go of. But I did. "Star Wars Day" ("May the 4th be with you!") - even harder. Someone bought me coffee today, and I gave a couple hours of my time, but that's not it. After realizing that I was going to try this, I panicked - what to do?!?! We went to dinner with a close friend and I paid - but that's really a stretch. Maybe I hit the letter of the practice, but probably not the spirit. It wasn't stuff - it was merely cash.
And the spirit, of course, is what it's all about.
Truth be told, I'd be happy to stay holed up in here by myself for days on end, reading and writing, taking a bike ride now and then, hitting daily Mass down the street, and encountering no one at all. I love people, love spending time with my friends, but it's a challenge to make myself do it some days. And now I'm thinking I'll give something away every day?!?
Well, yeah. Because it's all about letting go. As Zoskie noted in my diary of Sunday, it's about control. I'm choosing to let go of some of that (and yeah, the idea that even that choice is under my control is not lost on me... still working on that...)
My working ground rules:
- What I let go of has to be tangible. Books are good, especially if they have relevance to the receiver. Money and time - nope.
- What I let go of has to be to a person, not a warehouse. A delivery driver at a pizza place near where I'm in school asked about my Our Lady of Guadalupe miraculous medal and what else I have from Guadalupe. What can I let go of that would matter to him?
- It's not about me. What I give can't be because of any expected response that might benefit me, even something so simple as someone thinking I might not be the socially-inept nerdgrrrl that I really am. That's part of letting go, too.
- It has to be mine. If it's something I'd be recycling or tossing out anyway, I'm not invested in it, and it's not "letting go" so much as "disposing of" - which is convenience, not a spiritual practice.
- No double standards. I wrote several years ago about how I couldn't make wholesome, organic meals for the kiddo to take to school when the free/reduced price meal was "popcorn chicken" (known colloquially among the kids as "deep-fried chicken fat"). If I wouldn't give it to Kid Pax, I shouldn't dump it on someone else.
- I can't just give stuff to the Kid. That'd be the easy way out, right? Doesn't count. (I can't give stuff to the cats, either. Like they'd care.)
- I have to reach out to people beyond my immediate family. Which means taking my introvert self out into the big ol' world and engaging with folks.
- I have to be accountable. This one's difficult. I'm not going to post - not here, not at FB - what I "gave away" every day. If it happens that I get some insight out of some encounter, maybe I'll write about it, but this is oh so not about me - it's losing myself to find a clearer path to God. But I need to be accountable to myself, and I will keep track. Still thinking about an auditor - on the one hand, it's more accountability, but on the other, I'm not doing it for the auditor, right?
I don't know how to do this. I could give the priest a call and ask, but somehow I think that all of our paths to rid ourselves of the obstacles between ourselves and the Divine, Wisdom, Compassion - will be so unique. This discipline may be the same, but our experiences may differ, and I have to find my way down that road myself, I think.
One thing at a time.