What’s closest to our heart is usually the most difficult thing to write about—not because of the inadequacy of language to express deep thought, but because we rarely even see what’s closest to us. Can I see my own nose, the expression of my own face? I don’t know what to write about, except here, now.I sit on this back porch canopied by late summer green. Sun’s not exactly gilding the sky—more turning the pearl gray of cloud to nacreous. I sit. Hummingbirds come and go and won’t feed if I make the slightest move. Some lesson there . . . . Something about things coming not when we demand, but when we’ve achieved the right balance, equipoise, so that our own compulsions won’t unbalance and send spinning to futility the promise they bring.
But, Lord, what promise? I suppose unconsciously I ask the same old semester-beginning questions: how will I teach? How will I be myself, teach what I know in my inmost being, a being the church denies and denies me the right even to speak, and engage students?
I’m not sure there is an answer, other than patience, apprenticeship: in face of life’s biggest challenges (e.g, learning, teaching) one will always be the disciple. Obsculta, o filii . . . .
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