Prayer of Philaret, Metropolitan of Moscow

My Lord, I know not what I ought to ask of Thee.
Thou and Thou alone knowest my needs.
Thou lovest me more than I am able to love Thee.
O Father, grant unto me, Thy servant, all which I cannot ask.
For a cross I dare not ask, nor for consolation;
I dare only to stand in Thy presence.
My heart is open to Thee.
Thou seest my needs of which I myself am unaware.
Behold and lift me up!
In Thy presence I stand,
awed and silenced by Thy will and Thy judgments,
into which my mind cannot penetrate.
To Thee I offer myself as a sacrifice.
No other desire is mine but to fulfill Thy will.
Teach me how to pray.
Do Thyself pray within me.
Amen.

"This has always been one of my favourite spots. Often as I stood here of a quiet evening, the sea intoning its song with deep but calm solemnity, my eye catching not a single sail on the vast surface, and only the sea framed the sky and the sky the sea, and when, too, the busy hum of life grew silent and the birds sang their vespers, then the few dear departed ones rose from the grave before me, or rather it seemed as though they were not dead. I felt so much at ease in their midst, I rested in their embrace, and I felt as though I were outside my body and floated about with them in a higher ether-- until the seagulls harsh screech reminded me that I stood alone and it all vanished before my eyes, and with heavy heart I turned back to mingle with the world's throng-- yet without forgetting such blessed moments. --I have often stood there and pondered my past life and the different circles that have had their influence upon me. And before my contempletive gaze there vanished the pettiness that so often causes offence in life, the many misunderstandings that so often separate persons of different temperament, who, if they understood one another properly, would be tied with indissoluble bonds. When it all, seen thus in perspective, presented only the larger, bolder outlines and I didn't lose myself in detail as one so often does, but saw the whole in its totality, I gained the strength to grasp things differently, to admit how often I myself had made mistakes, and to forgive the mistakes of others. --As I stood there, without depression and despondency making me see myself as an enclitic of those by whom I am usually surrounded, or without pride making me the formative principle in a small circle-- as I stood there alone and forsaken and the power of the sea and the battle of the elements reminded me of my nothingness, while the sure flight of the birds reminded me on the other hand of Christ's words, 'Not a sparrow will fall to the earth without your heavenly Father's will', I felt at once how great and yet how insignificant I am. Those two great forces, pride and humility, amicably combined. Fortunate the man for whom this is possible every moment of his life, in whose breast these two factors have not merely settled out of court but have reached out their hands to each other and celebrated a wedding-- a marriage neither of convenience or of social unequals, but a truly quiet wedding performed in the innermost recesses of a person's heart, in the holy of holies, where few witnesses are present but everything happens before the eyes solely of Him who alone attended that first wedding in the Garden of Eden and who blessed the pair-- a marriage that will not be barren but will have blessed fruits visible in the world to the eye of the experienced observer. For these fruits...[will] escape the attention of the masses and only a solitary researcher discovers them and rejoices in his find. His life will flow on calmly andd quietly, and he will drain neither the intoxicatign bowl of pride nor the bitter chalice of despair. He has found what that great philosopher-- who by his calculations was able to destroy the enemy's instruments of assualt-- desired but did not find: that Archimedean point from which he could lift the whole world, that point which precisesly for that reason must lie outside the world, that point outside the confines of time and space."

-July the 29th [1834?] Papers and Journals: A Selection, Soren Kierkegaard

O ihr Zaertlichen, tretet zuweilen
in den Atem, der euch nicht meint,
lasst ihn an eueren Wangen sich teilen,
hinter euch zittert er, wieder vereint.

O ihr Seligen, o ihr Heilen,
die ihr der Anfang der Herzen scheint.
Bogen der Pfeile und Ziele von Pfeilen,
ewiger glaenzt euer Laecheln verweint.

Fuerchtet euch nicht zu leiden, die Schwere,
gebt sie zurueck an der Erde Gewicht;
schwer sind die Berge, schwer sind die Meere.

Selbst die als Kinder ihr pflanztet, die Baeume,
wurden zu schwer laengst; ihr trueget sie nicht.
Aber die Luefte. . . aber die Raeume . . .

-Rainer Maria Rilke
Sonets to Orpheus, no. 4

it feels strange to read something i thought was swallowed by cyberspace...it's funny that these posts are three years old.

i have been writing the past few years in a livejournal, which can be accessed by request.

I have much too much to do, and this journal, high-tech as it may be, will be replaced by that self-same little leather book. More tangible, more portable, and besides, it is red.

Auf Wiedersehen,
Bis Bald,
Tschüss.

Some days are not like others. Wavering, I could not force my handwriting to obey. Form letters. I strode across a parking lot (I was quite possibly late to class); I could not remember having put on this particular pair of shoes. Luckily for me, they matched my lime green sweater. Today I found the electronic hot plate steaming white wisps from it's burner. After four cups of tea I left for a class-- and the water boil dry. "Melissa, are you boiling some water?"

Twice.

Earlier, at six something a.m., a little grey half-concious light found its way beneath the blinds. Such strange dreams. Where is my alarm? No, my phone. Quick... slothful hands, still filled with sleep, obey. Mom! "Sorry to wake you," she said. Then, "I need you to pray for me." Her father--but I knew already.

The stagehands pulling ropes will start the velvet curtain's close.

My Granddad, eyes well up with tears when I recall one single second, your blue-eyed heartfelt smile.

"Since reason already convinces me that I should abstain from the belief in things which are not entirely certain and indubitable no less carefully than from those which appear to me to be manifestly false, it will be enough to make me reject them all if I can find in each some ground for doubt." -Rene Descartes

His bright and focused eyes surveyed the classroom before him as he spoke. I don't think any of us were really comfortable. Three weeks earlier, I met this man for the first time, and spotted on a shelf in his office a copy of Die Heileger Schrift, --the German Bible. Something else about him that had caught my eye--he'd that living spark-- that life behind the eyes that reveals a vivacious mind, sharp and pugnacious. I noticed it again now. Bearing a Ph.d. in the study of the history and literature of ancient Israel was part of his title, and this did not come as a surprise. As a class, we were discussing a book on biblical scholarship, a controversial reading assignment given the week before.

The energy level in the room rose, and I was clearly not the only one who had felt displaced by our reading. Discussion progressed: "You cannot prove God," the professor said in seriousness, but with what seemed to me to be a bit of a sparkle in his eye. Students asked tense questions, ending successively further and further away from the answers they had hoped for. Ordinarily, the opinions of a professor matter little to me...unless of course the individual happens to have a sound (and valid) case.

He did.

I struggled inside... the intensity of the last week combined with unanswered questions which plagued my mind. The class was restless; I sat still in my chair intently and hung on his words. More questions erupted; I remained quiet. I began to pray. My prayer was a proud one, and also fairly stupid, but it was honest. My vision began to blur as I silently asked without words, "God, oh God please... help me not to cry."

After class, I walked to the student center, mostly deserted that time of day. Finding a seat as far away as I could from the few students who were there, I sat down, and the light from the eastern window at my side poured over me. The morning sun unleashed the auburn in my hair, and for a few minutes I sat still, taking in the color and the scene. The best thing I have found about having long hair is the way it can drape beside my face, concealing it from view. A curtain, it did so now, and in this privacy, suppressed tears began to form, large and spherical, running smoothly down my face. In the silence, I picked up my pen and began to write.

My prayer the last week had been to find something real, some reason that was sure of, that I might still "believe." I was resolved not deny my God, not after the way He has transformed me, not after what He has done to give me life. But my mind insisted upon reasons ruthlessly, and I was forced to suspend my disbelief. For those of you who have experienced this, you already know that the pull between these conflicting realities feels strong enough to tear apart a soul. Reason has always been paramount to my faith journey--I became a Christian at age fifteen. The study of cosmology and a layman's introduction to astrophysics were instrumental in softening my aversion to the idea of God's existence. Issues concerning the validity of the Bible (the account by which we know of God's interaction with the people of Israel and the life and death of Christ, teachings of the early church, etc.) are of life litterally of life and death importance to me.

I thought of this as I wrote. And so I began to write a history, my history. And therein the description of the last three and a half years of my life, without "vain philosophies," and away from lengthly unstable proofs, I found an evidence to me far more compelling than any dried idea. In that process of examination, what I was searching for was unveiled.





Alles klar, Gott. Danke, alles klar.

Solio Deo Gloria.
Glory be to God.

The fourth of September.

Once typed, the need for me to say something is gone.

A stiff cup of black tea and the wheels and gears begin again to turn. It's been a long day.

Last night, I walked home to my apartment in the rain. The droplets were not heavy, but constant, and the air's clammy dampness clung around my dripping skin. Two ducks kept silent watch on the boardwalk; I could only make out their black silhouettes against the trembling, reflective pond. Strangely, I was reminded of Berlin... since leaving Germany, I've not experienced weather damp and cold: it was bitter and frozen winter then. The last nine months have been for me a solid summer, traveling from the burning season of one hemisphere to the rising heat of another. I welcome the early morning chill, and rustle of dry linden leaves signaling September.

All day long, I find myself repeatedly I thinking, 'This is the highlight of my day.' Whether it's the electricity I feel in philosophy class, the sound of words rolling off of my tongue while reciting memorized verse, sitting down with a hot cup of black organic coffee, or a steaming cup of miso soup... It may be the sound of my voice reverberating off the walls as I sing ascending the stairs, or the way the wind picks up my hair and plays with it, like a lover or a childhood friend. Without fail though, I am always enthralled by walks past the campus pond, where the birds who live there go about their day. The pond has a life of its own, lived on the mirror of it's waters, an inverted image of the world.

What a rare gift to be able to be able to enjoy the enjoyable--to be free to live. Zoe, in Greek. Abundant life.


,,Wenn ihr in meinem Worte bleibt, seid ihr in Warheit, meine Junger, ihr werdet die Warheit erkennen, und die Wahrheit wird euch freimachen..."

"He who cannot draw on three thousand years is living from hand to mouth."
-Goethe

***
My world is changing. A crisis? Yes, actually. Welcomed? Yes again. Something that I based my ideas of reality on has been shaken, and I am basically dodging falling rubble at this point-- in at least one area of immense importance. It would be false to say that I have not been expecting this demolition to happen for some time. I anticipated it-- which is why I am enjoying the open air and fresh view, even though part of me feels the sting of lost security. My mind has been chipping away at the fault lines in my now collapsed belief, and by the grace of God the stiffling walls have fallen. With Him I am sifting through what still remains.

Aside from my mind consuming my whole being the last few days, the more banal demands of living persist-- they insist that I, with time, go on. Vital stats: I've chosen to overridde the recommended number of credit hours by six, and I'm pleased with my class additions. I've now eighteen credits: Gender Roles in Society, Philosophy, History and Literature of Ancient Israel, British and American Literature, German, and Creative Writing. A new job also starts for me tomorrow, and somehow my time will have to be balanced between the pull of these two vectors. Classes here are more academically rigorous than those I took at CSU-- studios are really non-comparable to academics, so I say this without taking those into the comparison. I still think about Providence sometimes--about RISD... but this is fitting, and each passing day seems to bear witness to the beauty of this new and puzzling decision.


Someone is playing the old Romeo and Juliet soundrack, which is so surreal. I think I tossed that CD aside in junior high; it is an odd sensation to still know the words.

I've taken to writing again. A red leather book of blockpaper does not contain the space I need. So I am typing out into cyberspace, casting myself into the unknown-- of which I do not have, and could never gain, the knowledge of the ways these words will make as I type them. It is much as the spoken word, in that the speaker does not know whose ears are listening, or what the effects of their speech will be, as each syllable comprises a message that departs from the mouth of its creator, unleashed upon the world.


There is drumming coming up from out of the trees on the south side of campus. Night is falling, but I can still see the forms of people walking, running, congregating. I cannot see but an edge of the gathering, the crowd must be wild; I can hear the noise they make. Also visible, is the dim reflection of my face and hair in the soft mirror of the window, backlit by my desklamp. If I had the power, I would go down the cement stairwell, one, two, three stories and make my solitary way across the darkened parking lot.

The best thing about this campus is the way it looks at night. A string of circular lights, like glowing pearls, shine suspended on invisible black poles, wrapping along the length of the pond and throughout the winding tree-lined paths. Unlike streetlights they are short, standing six or seven feet high, and their circular globes create a magical effect.

Grandfather, an old university vice president, talks to me with shining, weathered blue eyes, cup of coffee held halfway between the table and his mouth. He speaks to me about the press of the students and the professors, the directional current in which the whole environment flows.
I feel like a stick wedged upright in a stream, deliberately withstanding the tug of the rushing waters.

It is dark now. I am tempted to press my ear against the windowpane, to make out the words of the concert playing on the evening air.