http://divineoffice.org/
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Praying the Divine Office
Here is a great site for praying the Divine Office:
http://divineoffice.org/
http://divineoffice.org/
Saturday, March 20, 2010
Fighting Demons
I have been fighting demons in my dreams for as long as I can remember. In my dreams I always know exactly what to do: pray. In my dreams it is easy to recognize a demon. It fights by trying to suck the breath out of me; I fight back with prayer. Sometimes the demon is so close to my own mouth that I cannot muster enough breath for a prayer. But if I whisper or even mouth the name of Jesus then the demon can’t hurt me and is defeated.
Recently I have begun to fight the demons while I am awake. I finally recognize them. They don’t look like the demons in my dreams; they don’t have demonic faces. Rather, they are more of a shadow that passes across a person’s face: my own face. The demons curl themselves into the corner of my consciousness, whispering words that demean and undermine my efforts to live a fruitful life.
“You should feel horrible about yourself, your body, your finances, your house, your parenting skills, or lack thereof. What a loser! How can you live with yourself? You are a drain on society; you’d be doing the world a favor if you die…” This is the poisonous vapor that spews from the lips of demons; this is the toxic haze of depression.
But now that I recognize the demons I fight them the same way I have been trained to fight them in my dreams. I can pray. I can draw close to God, and he draws close to me; the devil has no choice but to flee. God arms me with weapons of light. His words are the weapons in my armament. His comfort is my reward and my refuge.
Recently I have begun to fight the demons while I am awake. I finally recognize them. They don’t look like the demons in my dreams; they don’t have demonic faces. Rather, they are more of a shadow that passes across a person’s face: my own face. The demons curl themselves into the corner of my consciousness, whispering words that demean and undermine my efforts to live a fruitful life.
“You should feel horrible about yourself, your body, your finances, your house, your parenting skills, or lack thereof. What a loser! How can you live with yourself? You are a drain on society; you’d be doing the world a favor if you die…” This is the poisonous vapor that spews from the lips of demons; this is the toxic haze of depression.
But now that I recognize the demons I fight them the same way I have been trained to fight them in my dreams. I can pray. I can draw close to God, and he draws close to me; the devil has no choice but to flee. God arms me with weapons of light. His words are the weapons in my armament. His comfort is my reward and my refuge.
Sunday, March 14, 2010
But Seriously,
I'd like to introduce Rexington Gerard, reporter for the Barker Daily. He is a freelance writer who has graciously agreed to write a column for the Barker Daily, which you can read online at http://www.barkerdaily.blogspot.com/
Rex shares a profile page with me, so to find out more about him please visit my profile page. He will be reporting on a wide variety of topics so be sure to check in from time to time.
Saturday, March 13, 2010
Thursday, March 11, 2010
Black Iris, for S.G. and Rishi
I didn’t mean to lie.
In fact,
I didn’t realize that I had lied
until I was driving home.
As I turned west off the main highway, twilight bloomed:
sudden velvet: a black iris sky.
It was in that moment that the truth struck me.
I am still having nightmares, even though I told you that I am not.
In fact, I had one last night that took most of this day to shake;
I spent I don’t know how much energy trying to ignore how angry and helpless I felt in the dream. I told you that my dreams were mostly entertaining; it seemed completely true to me at the time. The memory of the nightmare, shrunk into a tiny corner of my mind; it seemed insignificant and so far away.
It would have been rude to waste your time with something trivial, something I'd worked hard to forget.
So even though you pressed me, gently, asking the question in a slightly different way, my answer was the same.
“No." I beamed. "My dreams are technicolored and entertaining. It’s like going to the movies. I get the whole range of shows: comedy, drama…” I started to say horror and mystery too, but that would have been too complicated for such a short conversation.
I didn’t mean to lie; I was just trying not to muddy the waters.
And my dreams are funny and dramatic, sometimes.
A similar, but not quite the same thing happened when I was talking to one of my children. We were talking about how traumatic it is for a child to suffer one form of loss after another. We were talking about pets. I said, “Well, you guys only had one cat that died.”
She said, “No we didn’t! What about…” And she began to name the cats that we have lost over the years, and not only the cats, but all the pets we have lost and grieved.
How could my mind pass over truth like that? I was not trying to deny the truth. Why was I unable to see certain parts of our shared past that were so vivid to my daughter?
Of course, before the words were completely out of her mouth I remembered. For a moment everything was clear, the way a windshield is clear seconds after the blade swishes left to right. How long does it take for the raindrops to obscure the view again? For that interval I could see and feel the whole truth.
It shimmered.
Once I had a Garfield comic strip that I pinned to the wall in my yoga room. In it Garfield was staring at a blank, white screen, obviously wondering what all the fuss was about. Then his (human) sidekick comes and pulls the shade. A bright, sunny day appears and Garfield says, “I knew that.”
Trauma may very well cause a person’s memory to fracture, but why is mine still so, I don’t know, separated like a pane of stained glass?
Everyone has a certain amount of changeability when it comes to remembering the truth; by its nature memory is elastic and slippery; is perception more of an art than a science?
As the sky was losing its velvet, I wondered how to tell what is true.
Wondering made me want to tell it better.
In fact,
I didn’t realize that I had lied
until I was driving home.
As I turned west off the main highway, twilight bloomed:
sudden velvet: a black iris sky.
It was in that moment that the truth struck me.
I am still having nightmares, even though I told you that I am not.
In fact, I had one last night that took most of this day to shake;
I spent I don’t know how much energy trying to ignore how angry and helpless I felt in the dream. I told you that my dreams were mostly entertaining; it seemed completely true to me at the time. The memory of the nightmare, shrunk into a tiny corner of my mind; it seemed insignificant and so far away.
It would have been rude to waste your time with something trivial, something I'd worked hard to forget.
So even though you pressed me, gently, asking the question in a slightly different way, my answer was the same.
“No." I beamed. "My dreams are technicolored and entertaining. It’s like going to the movies. I get the whole range of shows: comedy, drama…” I started to say horror and mystery too, but that would have been too complicated for such a short conversation.
I didn’t mean to lie; I was just trying not to muddy the waters.
And my dreams are funny and dramatic, sometimes.
A similar, but not quite the same thing happened when I was talking to one of my children. We were talking about how traumatic it is for a child to suffer one form of loss after another. We were talking about pets. I said, “Well, you guys only had one cat that died.”
She said, “No we didn’t! What about…” And she began to name the cats that we have lost over the years, and not only the cats, but all the pets we have lost and grieved.
How could my mind pass over truth like that? I was not trying to deny the truth. Why was I unable to see certain parts of our shared past that were so vivid to my daughter?
Of course, before the words were completely out of her mouth I remembered. For a moment everything was clear, the way a windshield is clear seconds after the blade swishes left to right. How long does it take for the raindrops to obscure the view again? For that interval I could see and feel the whole truth.
It shimmered.
Once I had a Garfield comic strip that I pinned to the wall in my yoga room. In it Garfield was staring at a blank, white screen, obviously wondering what all the fuss was about. Then his (human) sidekick comes and pulls the shade. A bright, sunny day appears and Garfield says, “I knew that.”
Trauma may very well cause a person’s memory to fracture, but why is mine still so, I don’t know, separated like a pane of stained glass?
Everyone has a certain amount of changeability when it comes to remembering the truth; by its nature memory is elastic and slippery; is perception more of an art than a science?
As the sky was losing its velvet, I wondered how to tell what is true.
Wondering made me want to tell it better.
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