Taking Off and Landing
Sabbatical
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It’s time.
To all things there is a season, and I think that blogging may have had it’s season, for the time being. I started in 2001 with a circulation email with good stories, meditations, reflections, deep thoughts. It’s been a long time since I’ve had anything to say quite like those early emails, or like the earliest posts when this blog was in its first of three incarnations.
Basically, the tank is dry, and coming up with anything to say is more work than pleasure. I love writing; words move me, and I need to immerse myself them in them again, but more for my own soul than for giving them to anyone for the moment.
And so, this isn’t goodbye forever. Just for now. I’ll leave the blog up for your perusal, but the content here is going to be fixed for the near future. I may start the email missives again; I may just take up journaling, something I haven’t done in months. Either way, know that it’s nothing personal. I’m just dry.
It’s just time.
See you when I see you.
Praise Be
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Why is this so delicious?
Though I do not comprehend, I give thanks none the less.
El Fin
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And another semester is down. Nothing much to say, except that the pipes are dry, and all my words are pretty much vaporized by the last paper. So without further ado: Aquinas and Dante on Religious Poverty.
I can’t wait to pick up the laundry off the floor. Or vacuum. Seriously. Don’t come in just yet.
And for giggles: Santa goes to grad school.
Advent: Opening Up
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Yesterday began the church season of Advent. As my friend Leah puts it, “I’m so tired of ordinary time.” Ordinary time, in short, is that season of the church calendar that spans from Pentecost back around to Advent, leaving us with a long, dry Autumn with nothing to do but wait, so to speak, for the coming of Christ. It’s very poetic, the drudgery and gradual dying of the natural world each year corresponding to the waiting for Jesus to show up.
It’s a waiting game, Advent. Why does it feel so much more like Lent this year than last year? Lent is the season for repentance and remorse; Advent is supposed to be the time for anticipation, for not being able to stand still from jumping up and down. In one, you’re awaiting the birth; in one, you’re leaning towards a great death.
But waiting is waiting is waiting, isn’t it? Waiting for all things be made new is hanging around by any other name, right? I sit on a half-written paper, three months of shrapnel crowding my floor, shoved around by unwashed laundry, hopes, regrets, addictions, present glories, coffee stains, and maybes. Waiting in the end, is just waiting.
Waiting the redemption of our bodies, that is. And our souls.
