As dusk turns to night, I find myself alone with my thoughts. The only audience I have are two pensive felines either waiting for food, or some greater truth all together. These are prime moments – the hours between toddler slumber and my own. As night falls, the words of my favorite theologian whispers between my ears.
“I have prayed for years for one good humiliation a day, and then, I must watch my reaction to it. I have no other way of spotting both my denied shadow self and my idealized persona.” – Richard Rohr
I have yet to find enough courage to pray this exposing prayer myself. In its stead, I echo the all too canned call to my Creator for humility. In this I find more safety than the humiliating prayers of Rohr. Perhaps this is one of many reasons he is so beloved. His theology is a warm breathe of refreshment on our burdened souls. I dwell on such things as I snap the green beans, placing them carelessly in the colander before their lukewarm bath. It is better to prepare dinner at twilight, before the rush of five o’ clock. The ideal is for meals to be expressions of love and care for those whom they are prepared for. Late in the evening, one can offer both more readily. Without the looming pressure of set tables and rigid schedules, I feel free to put more care in the slivering of onions. Of course, time is not necessarily what you want when looming over onions. Eye sensitivity means piercing tears.
As I re-enter the kitchen for round two, I remember the gadget made for instances like these. I stubbornly place that remembrance towards the deeper recesses of memory.
I pick the knife up again.
There are many old wives tales for such an instance. Many I have tried. In years past, I have wore glasses, placed a sulfur match between my lips, opened a window. Nothing. None of them seem to make the burn any less intense. Nowadays I take the flaring of my capillaries as a badge of culinary honor.
This meal cost me something.
This meal burned a bit.
As I proudly finish, I pour in a few carrots into the crock pot. I do this more for color . . . and for a toddler who gets excited for the soft simplicities to chew upon. Besides the words of Rohr, I think of Ginsberg. A friend of Bob Dylan, he was said to have desire to be Dylan. The evening prior found me watching both men in their own prime, touring the country in melody and rhyme. Alan lamented how the words of poets seemed no longer as memorable – or at least as committed to memory – as those of popular musicians. I think of how art takes many forms, and how what is pure is not always remembered.
“I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness . . . “
Eleven words.
The entirety of a man and his work summed up in his most famous 11 characters. Not even enough to fill a tweet for an all too quickly fixed generation. It is impressive and sad how extensive the song catalog in my head is. Constantly rambling off tunes and rhymes, I find it difficult to remember anything substantive. This apparently is what it means to grow older in this modern age.
In a fleeting moment of courage, I pray for a humiliation.
Matt simon blog 