For Cheryl Richardson
I GAVE UP ELECTRICITY FOR LENT
I gave up electricity for Lent. Naturally it was unintentional — an accidental blackout due to lack of funds
and then I just forgot because my mind was occupied with, oh, who knows at any given time? ...with dust
motes, maybe, bouncing slat to slat and settling at last upon a miniblind ...with all the kinds of clouds there
are, the stacking-up ones that portend a storm, the cotton puffs, the ones that roil, and the flat, still, formless,
suffocating ceiling that can make you feel bereft, make you forget the sun is shining warm and bright above,
and don’t you love it when the jet you’re in glides up and up through mist into the blue?
Well, unintentional or not, one does the best one can in each and every circumstance. Life gives you
peaches, and what’s that about, except a chance to bake a pie, perhaps a cobbler or a tart instead... and for
a heady, hungry moment you forget your oven is, of course, electric. Damn its cold and unresponsive coils to hell!
I had a fascinating conversation with a nun a dozen years ago and never have forgotten one fine bit of
wisdom she dispensed: Thank God for everything, she said, the flat tire and the lightning strike that split the tree that
sent the limb adrift to smash the roof of your garage... and, I’m interpolating here, the power outage.
Sound advice, I’ve always thought, and meant to follow it, but first I spent an hour being sorry for myself,
and another thirty minutes self-berating. Then I basked in gratitude, not feeling it at first, just doing it, just
glancing nervously at my unruly cache of blessings, finding it a mess as I expected. Focus, focus, said I to
myself, and I began to separate the chaff and wheat and whatnot. Sooner than I had imagined, I had five or
six neat mounds of reasons to be happy. I began with you and then I took a nap.
My family and friends are nothing if not present, steady flames of energy and some of it spent loving me
and isn’t that miraculous, considering that most of what I give back is intangible — sporadic words and
thankful little hymns I dedicate to you.
And every night of this now sacred interval of dark I lit three candles — every night my private trinity of
them — one for the bathroom, one to warm my coffee cup (Elaine made coffee for me and my air pot kept it
nice and tepid), and the third for prayer and meditation and just watching it and getting lost in its forever-changing
flame.
Every night I prayed for you, and if it was because I’d nothing else to do, no music from the Internet to listen
to, it was a fine and satisfying way to spend my time nevertheless. With not as much success I tried to trim my hair by candlelight — my
bangs were hanging in my eyes in clumps — and now I look as if a two-year-old had had her way with scissors while I
dozed and there are spots of frizz and holes where hair once was, pink shiny scalp as if I had some kind of
parasite.
I swept the dust off dresser tops and desks and such with one of those green fuzzy things like hair on trolls
we used to buy. I tried to heat a bowl of oatmeal with my coffee candle, but the mixture never did congeal,
so I said, “Thank you, God, for sustenance” before I plunged into my meal of Crystal Lite and little cookies
shaped like tigers, lions, pigs and goats and antelopes and elephants... and then I chased it with a swig or two
of chocolate syrup. Took a tiny nap and thought while drifting off I’d better pitch the half-a-catfish turning
lethal in the freezer.
My kitties kept me warm. Tim placed a paw across my abdomen and purred with absolutely undisturbed
contentment. Henry buried his entire head and twitched his whiskers in my armpit, and it tickled — wicked
Henry, so aloof so long until he claimed me as his closest friend. Miles likes to lick my skin, whatever is exposed —
my toes, this time.
I rose. I stretched, I folded clothes. I swept the kitchen floor and washed the dishes, made a mental note to
take the catfish and the peas out of the freezer and to set a pan of vinegar in there to neutralize the odor. If
I started to get bored, I meditated more, remembering as Kevin Farmer teaches to include the blues if they
intruded, as they did occasionally. I contemplated poverty but I could not sustain the thought of it. When
you’re encased in cats, you feel how near abundance is, just like the sun, exactly like the sun above the black
and stormy sky. And when my power is restored — tonight or in a day or two — I’ll try to fix or
else disguise the defects in my coif... and I will hope to carry out of this experience, this accidental Lenten
sacrifice, the gratitude for simply life, sustained by energy that doesn’t flow on metal wires, that kindles its
own fires and makes a meager meal of purple water and a lump of gritty crackers more or less delicious,
manna, if you please, from heaven on a cracked Fiesta dish, and— oh, dear God, the catfish and the peas!
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| Sunrise from Pike's Peak |
I GAVE UP ELECTRICITY FOR LENT
I gave up electricity for Lent. Naturally it was unintentional — an accidental blackout due to lack of funds
and then I just forgot because my mind was occupied with, oh, who knows at any given time? ...with dust
motes, maybe, bouncing slat to slat and settling at last upon a miniblind ...with all the kinds of clouds there
are, the stacking-up ones that portend a storm, the cotton puffs, the ones that roil, and the flat, still, formless,
suffocating ceiling that can make you feel bereft, make you forget the sun is shining warm and bright above,
and don’t you love it when the jet you’re in glides up and up through mist into the blue?
peaches, and what’s that about, except a chance to bake a pie, perhaps a cobbler or a tart instead... and for
a heady, hungry moment you forget your oven is, of course, electric. Damn its cold and unresponsive coils to hell!
I had a fascinating conversation with a nun a dozen years ago and never have forgotten one fine bit of
wisdom she dispensed: Thank God for everything, she said, the flat tire and the lightning strike that split the tree that
sent the limb adrift to smash the roof of your garage... and, I’m interpolating here, the power outage.
Sound advice, I’ve always thought, and meant to follow it, but first I spent an hour being sorry for myself,
and another thirty minutes self-berating. Then I basked in gratitude, not feeling it at first, just doing it, just
glancing nervously at my unruly cache of blessings, finding it a mess as I expected. Focus, focus, said I to
myself, and I began to separate the chaff and wheat and whatnot. Sooner than I had imagined, I had five or
six neat mounds of reasons to be happy. I began with you and then I took a nap.
and isn’t that miraculous, considering that most of what I give back is intangible — sporadic words and
thankful little hymns I dedicate to you.
And every night of this now sacred interval of dark I lit three candles — every night my private trinity of
them — one for the bathroom, one to warm my coffee cup (Elaine made coffee for me and my air pot kept it
nice and tepid), and the third for prayer and meditation and just watching it and getting lost in its forever-changing
flame.
Every night I prayed for you, and if it was because I’d nothing else to do, no music from the Internet to listen
to, it was a fine and satisfying way to spend my time nevertheless. With not as much success I tried to trim my hair by candlelight — my
bangs were hanging in my eyes in clumps — and now I look as if a two-year-old had had her way with scissors while I
dozed and there are spots of frizz and holes where hair once was, pink shiny scalp as if I had some kind of
parasite.
I swept the dust off dresser tops and desks and such with one of those green fuzzy things like hair on trolls
we used to buy. I tried to heat a bowl of oatmeal with my coffee candle, but the mixture never did congeal,
so I said, “Thank you, God, for sustenance” before I plunged into my meal of Crystal Lite and little cookies
shaped like tigers, lions, pigs and goats and antelopes and elephants... and then I chased it with a swig or two
of chocolate syrup. Took a tiny nap and thought while drifting off I’d better pitch the half-a-catfish turning
lethal in the freezer.
contentment. Henry buried his entire head and twitched his whiskers in my armpit, and it tickled — wicked
Henry, so aloof so long until he claimed me as his closest friend. Miles likes to lick my skin, whatever is exposed —
my toes, this time.
I rose. I stretched, I folded clothes. I swept the kitchen floor and washed the dishes, made a mental note to
take the catfish and the peas out of the freezer and to set a pan of vinegar in there to neutralize the odor. If
I started to get bored, I meditated more, remembering as Kevin Farmer teaches to include the blues if they
intruded, as they did occasionally. I contemplated poverty but I could not sustain the thought of it. When
you’re encased in cats, you feel how near abundance is, just like the sun, exactly like the sun above the black
and stormy sky. And when my power is restored — tonight or in a day or two — I’ll try to fix or
else disguise the defects in my coif... and I will hope to carry out of this experience, this accidental Lenten
sacrifice, the gratitude for simply life, sustained by energy that doesn’t flow on metal wires, that kindles its
own fires and makes a meager meal of purple water and a lump of gritty crackers more or less delicious,
manna, if you please, from heaven on a cracked Fiesta dish, and— oh, dear God, the catfish and the peas!
LEAD ME ON
On Easter, if you celebrate
no other way, at least do
this: Go out into the young
spring day, and if it rains, it
rains. Engage your senses. See
abundance in the leaves about
to open naturally... relaxed, they
do not strain or struggle in
their work, though it is necessary
to the universe. Now hear
the song that's being sung, the
constant music in the air, and feel
the breeze that strokes your face
and stirs your hair. Breathe deeply of
this sacred space, and smell the fertile
soil, the apple blossoms, promises of
lush red fruit in autumn. Snap a petal
off a daffodil—soft as a mother's cheek
and velvety. Now stretch your arms
toward heaven, if you dare, and
let this be your prayer:
Creator,
thank you for my life, which
you make fresh and new, erasing
my mistakes repented and
my sinfulness. The price was
paid, and I, Creator, I accept
your precious gift of innocence.
Unmeriting, I claim the grace
you offer— have indeed beseeched
me in my heart to take so that the
sacrifice will not be wasted and the
deed made meaningless. This day,
the next, I start at the beginning.
I am spring today— the
fertile earth, the bursting bright
green infant leaves, the redbirds
trilling winsome carols long before the
dawn. I am released. This prayer affirms
me clean and pure as at my birth.
And in my freedom I surrender, Source
of Love, Almighty Spirit, to your
wise direction, leading to my highest
good, and ask for your protection
in my journey. I am sure of
nothing but your great and loving
presence, your eternal patience with
my aimless wandering. Now lead me on.
O lead me, Father-Mother, lead us all
in glory to our perfect destination.
May it be thus. Amen.
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| Luc Viatour GFDL/CC |
